


(I Got A Love That) Keeps Me Waiting

by leslielol



Category: Justified
Genre: 5 Times, Camping, First Meetings, Flirting, Gun Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Build, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan Givens doesn't think much of Tim Gutterson... until he rebuffs the cowboy-lawman's advances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Season 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> My very first 5+1 fic! Exclusively Raylan/Tim, this is a little project I started a while back for zenillusion. I'm planning on each chapter taking place sometime during its respective season of the show. It's just an excuse to write bad flirting and eventual boning.  
> I'm still mainly working on my other fic, but this is a fun distraction for when I've had enough of google mapping all the routes from Kentucky to Mexico.  
> The title comes from The Black Keys song, "Lonely Boy."
> 
> The characters belong to their creators; I'm just amusing myself.

It started raining around Williamsburg, stopped just outside of Conway, and picked up again in Lexington. Raylan had been driving north on I-75 for a lengthy stretch, but even drawing closer to his destination was no welcome respite. 

No, Raylan came to realize as he rolled to a stop in a near-empty parking lot, it felt distinctly like failure.

The Lexington courthouse didn't have a grand cascade of marble steps, or columns, or a statuesque tribute to fairness and justice. It was a simple red brick building, like most of what spotted the city, completely uninteresting save for what went on between its four walls. 

Its entrance was just a set of double doors under a short awning. As Raylan approached, his boots skimming puddles, he noticed a figure in the doorway. He was young, boyish, and favoring a recently-lit cigarette like it was his first girlfriend. 

He was also blocking Raylan's way. 

"Didn't they tell you there's no smoking here?" Raylan ducked under the awning to escape the rain. His hat was speckled, but otherwise unharmed.

"They did tell me." The guy's voice didn't match his face; it was grave and heavy, dropped unexpectedly from soft pink lips. It carried on like an easy drawl, _casual,_ whereas the kid looked uncomfortable, buttoned to the throat in what might have been the first pressed shirt he'd ever bought. The maroon tie, though, was knotted with precision. 

Before Raylan could start up, maybe work a little of the aggression out of his system with this kid spoiling for a fight, he noticed the star on the man's belt, the gun at his hip. 

"Deputy," he observed, his tone kinder if only to assuage his proposition: "Can I bum one?" 

Raylan wasn't so keen on turning himself over to Art--which was what it felt like, given the quick turnaround with Dan in Miami. Raylan's first bit of luck since shooting Tommy Bucks before he got plugged himself was this kid, obliging him. 

The pack appeared from one jacket pocket, the lighter from the other.

Raylan hadn't smoked since he was a kid himself, filthy and scared, coming out of the mines. It wasn't something he did for very long--both the coal digging and the smoking--but he was back in Kentucky, after all, and long before he swore never to return he swore never to enter another mine shaft. Smoking now seemed, in its own way, like a means to safeguard against another trip deep into broken earth. Boyd Crowder got him started on the habit--on quite a few habits, though smoking was probably the worst.

Raylan watched the cigarette balance precariously on the Deputy's lip as he returned the pack and lighter to his pockets. _Probably._

"Tim Gutterson." The man offered his name, but not his hand. It stayed perched on his piece, but on the steely-eyed Deputy Raylan decided it didn't look peevish or timid, like most young guys who fondle a gun like they would their own pricks. Tim's hands were steady, his stance assured.

"Raylan--"

"Givens, I know." Tim drew in an obscene drag, then blew smoke out the corner of his mouth and into the rain. His stare was so laser-focused, Raylan imagined he could see the raindrops piercing the grayish cloud.

Still, Raylan raised an eyebrow. He wasn't naturally modest, but the Lexington courthouse wasn't the first place he expected to be recognized--in the late evening hours, no less. 

"This was kind of short notice," he said, throwing his free hand to indicate the building at their backs. He didn’t finish, instead choosing to leave the comment as an unanswered question. _Did I make the six o’clock news?_

Tim let Raylan enjoy the prospect of mild celebrity before reining him back in, admitting coolly, "I ride a desk just outside the Chief's office. I'm gonna bet your middle name ain't _motherfucking,_ though."

"Oh good, Art remembers me." 

Tim smiled--toothy and wide--but quickly smothered it. He probably knew he looked all of twelve years old when he smiled.

"So you're that Miami cowboy, then?" It wasn't so much a genuine question as it was Tim simply being overcome with the desire to throw around the monicker.

Raylan adjusted his hat out of habit. "I ain't from Miami."

"You just come from there," Tim said, dull and kind of tired, like he was already over Raylan's whole shtick.

Raylan gave him a once over, and judging by the kid's cool demeanor and the way his hair was growing out, decided to make a wager. "You from Iraq?"

There was that smile again. "Afghanistan," Tim corrected, "by way of Arkansas."

"Country boy," Raylan observed, sucked on the cigarette, then admitted his own sordid truth: "Harlan." 

It had been years since he voiced the place aloud; in Miami, people saw the hat and assumed Texas, and Raylan never cared to issue a correction.

"You can talk," Tim said, eyebrows up to his hairline. His cigarette was quickly meeting its end, so he plucked it from his lips, let it die a slow death. "Right down to the county."

"There's not much of Kentucky in Harlan," Raylan mused, because even he was given to a little wistfulness. The drive up, out of sandy beaches and marshlands, into hills and relentless bluegrass, affected him more than Raylan would care to admit. It wasn’t what he wanted to be doing, but goddamn if it didn’t feel just the littlest bit _right._

That could have been the end of it--Tim's hand didn't snake back into his pocket for another smoke--but the rain hadn't abated and the evening was too far gone for the kid to be late for anything other than an empty bed, and maybe the Letterman monologue. 

Or Leno, but Raylan didn't peg him as a fan of the desperately unfunny. 

But Tim didn’t seem pressed on time, so he threw down the butt and ground it into nothing, then asked, "And the hat is from...?"

"Little Texas border town." Raylan had a better line for an explanation, but it was a showstopper. He liked shooting the shit with this kid, so he smirked and teased, "You gonna ask about the jeans, next?"

"JC Penny's?" Tim guessed. "Circa 1990?" 

Raylan huffed at the insinuation he hadn’t updated his wardrobe since the 90’s--not that it wasn’t the ideal decade for denim. 

“Were you even alive? You look a little young to be sportin' that tin.”

Tim’s grin was sly and understated. “Thanks, I moisturize.”

Tim’s hand returned to his pocket, but he stopped himself from getting another cigarette. He was probably trying to quit, maybe had a one-a-day rule, or a girlfriend who didn’t like the taste. Raylan found himself smiling; he wouldn’t mind the first two. 

“You waiting for someone?”

“Made the mistake of lending my roommate my car,” Tim shrugged.

"Roommate, huh? What's she doing with your car at ten in the evening?" Laying out details for Tim to correct or not was Raylan being coy, a tactic Tim was decidedly against.

"He's probably getting high," Tim said plainly, honestly, because that's what Mark did these days. 

Raylan had a final taste, then flicked his bummed cigarette into the gravel lot. It found a puddle and was extinguished. 

"Let me give you a ride. I don't really wanna see Art right now, anyway."

“Yeah?” Tim seemed genuinely surprised.

"Sure." Raylan studied Tim a moment, saw the unease marking his face and squaring his shoulders. Otherwise so expertly masked by a drawl and a smirk, it bled through him now, colored his shirtfront like Raylan's offer was the verifiable stick of a switchblade. Coming off a fifteen hour drive with only his thoughts for company, Raylan was naturally feeling a little restless. He made another wager--costlier, this time. A certified risk. 

"I’m a bit rusty on my know-how of the city, though. Lot's changed. Could take you as far as my hotel."

There was that coy shit again.

Tim stalled, went still like an animal might, sensing danger. He parted his lips then pressed them shut. He glanced behind him, towards the double doors and the light emanating from inside the building. No one had so much as seen Raylan proposition him, let alone overheard the terms. The danger was ahead of him--not lurking somewhere behind. 

Raylan smiled and dropped a hip. He was loose and languid from head to toe. 

“Did I get that wrong?” he asked, knowing he hadn’t.

Raylan supposed he wouldn't feel so pleased with himself if Tim had popped him in the mouth, but the young Deputy seemed contemplative, not offended.

"Where's your hotel?" he asked. 

_Practical,_ Raylan observed, pleased. Not a hanger-on or under any romantic illusions. Raylan knew he could stir the latter in people--he’d had no fewer than a dozen women and a handful of men tell him he looked like something out of a dime store novel. A hero, lover, and lawman all wrapped into one. Little came of those relations, however, after it was discovered Raylan could only be one of those things at a time. 

As for a hotel, he didn't have one, yet. "Let's say, walking distance from your place."

Tim folded his arms across his chest and ducked his head, smiled at the asphalt. "So not only do you wanna fool around in your shitty hotel room, you want me out, afterwards."

"Was it my southern charm that gave me away? It's not like you'll be missing out on a continental breakfast." Raylan stepped out from under the awning, cementing the offer with the kiss of a weakening rain shower. He looked at Tim, expectant. Raylan had picked up a few men during his stint in Miami and reasoned that his technique should not be geographically stifled in any way. "What's the hold up?"

“Well, Raylan from Miami by way of Harlan,” Tim chewed his words out from under a faltering grin, “A couple things.”

Maybe Tim-- _from Afghanistan by way of Arkansas_ \--was here to prove him wrong. 

"I can't decide why I ought to decline: because you just threw it out there, or because you were lucky enough to hit a target."

Raylan wished he hadn’t made his play so quickly; he was well on his way to getting soaked. "Those read like positives to me."

"Aaaand we have a winner," Tim drawled. He dropped his weight against the building wall and got comfortable. "I'll wait for my friend."

Raylan frowned. It wasn’t like he’d asked the guy to rob a bank with him, Bonnie and Clyde style, much less asked him to be Bonnie. “It’s just some fun, Tim.”

Tim shrugged.

It took Raylan a moment to realize he'd actually been turned down. He got into his car, rolled down the passenger side window, and called to Tim: "Fuck it. I'll take you home. Nothing untoward." 

"There's that southern charm,” Tim said, but pushed off the wall nonetheless. At the car, Tim was again hesitant. 

“Don’t,” he said, sure and slow, but no less confident than he’d been in teasing Raylan, “Don’t try that on me again. Don’t be cute with me. Ever. Or anyone else, if you’re as smart as you seem to think you are.”

Raylan heard him correctly, and nodded once. It was a high-risk play, he knew that. The way Tim was talking down to him now further convinced Raylan of the move’s high-reward. 

“I suppose I ain't used to being back here, just yet.” Raylan offered a half-smile: a symbol of defeat--hardly. He hadn’t heard so much as a “no,” but rather, a convoluted “can’t.” He figured a go with the young Deputy was still on the table, making Raylan’s cool compliance necessary. Like the haircut, Tim carried a very _just off the boat_ attitude, the quintessential, _no queers here, sir no sir._ It was almost cute. 

Tim dropped in beside him. “No, I suppose you ain’t.”

While driving, Raylan didn’t bother making small talk. Tim seemed wary enough, and Raylan didn’t believe he’d need to know his way around the Lexington office for long. Tommy Bucks would become old news when the next big gun thug started terrorizing Miami, and Dan would have him back in a heartbeat.

At Tim’s instruction, they rolled to a stop at a little apartment complex opposite some soon-to-be suburbs. Presently, they were little more than plots of dust and dirt, sat flat under great banners boasting a green and idyllic future. 

"Appreciate it," Tim said, but his voice was distant, his attention elsewhere. There was a man in the front seat of a shiny black SUV parked a few spaces away. He was slumped over the wheel, seemingly asleep. 

Curious, Raylan parked and stepped partway out of his Lincoln. Tim moved fast and was already across the lot, throwing open the car door, yanking away car keys and shaking the occupant awake. 

_"Hey, man, I was just on my way..."_

Raylan, figuring he’d already pushed his luck with the kid, stepped back into his car and drove away. He _did_ spot a motel not too far back. It looked a little like an outhouse, which to Raylan read as _aspirational._ He wouldn’t be staying long. 

\- 

Raylan didn’t spend much time in the office his first few days in Lexington--hell, he didn’t spend much time in _Lexington_ at all. An old friend snared his interest, and Raylan was back in Harlan County, running afoul of familiar faces much sooner than he’d like. Raylan found his desk to be situated between Tim's and Rachel’s, the smart-looking Deputy he’d liked from the moment he saw her chewing out a drug dealer. She unabashedly rolled her eyes at Raylan's hat, probably of a mind that _surely, surely he would not wear it into the office._

Sat at his desk, Raylan had a thought. 

It was one thing to instigate an office fling with some young fella stuck pulling prisoner transport duties for the more senior Marshals, who got handed the night shifts and who Raylan may not even see on a regular basis... but it dawned on Raylan that there weren’t enough bodies in the office to be drawing those kinds of lines at all. He was on even-footing with Tim.

"Thought it was a bigger office," Raylan said, eyeing Tim accusingly from across the short partition between their desks. "But I guess you knew otherwise."

Tim raised his eyebrows, but obscured his expression with an upturned coffee mug. "Yeah, I did."

A tight ass and a smart mouth or not, Raylan was grateful he didn’t end up sleeping with the guy he’d be sat next to eight hours a day. Proximity, Raylan knew, complicated things. "Well thanks, I suppose." 

Tim frowned; he’d had enough of this conversation when he _first_ ended it some days ago. “I suppose you're welcome.”

Raylan tapped idly at his keyboard. He was thinking about visiting Boyd in the hospital, maybe, or stirring up a reason to go down to Harlan and see Ava. Boyd should have come down from his morphine-induced high, left his religious delusions on the operating table by now. But even then, something was warped between them now. Shooting a fella in the heart will tend to do that.

Ava was a sure thing; she’d always liked him, and he couldn’t deny an inherent interest in a woman who twice shot at a Crowder over a chicken dinner. Of all his sexual pursuits, however, Tim was closest. 

“Your friend all right?”

Tim frowned deeper. “This ain’t brunch with the gals, new guy. Get to work.” 

\- 

At the end of the day, Art called Raylan into his office. Art had already imparted his welcome to Raylan, so this was something separate. Art was smiling, bourbon already in hand, and motioned for Raylan to close the door even though just a handful of people remained in the office. It hadn’t been so long since Glynco that Raylan didn’t know when Art broke out the good bourbon, he either had bad news or a good story. They were very different things--Raylan knew that, too. 

Raylan accepted a glass and took a seat. He didn’t have to wait long for Art to clue him in. 

“Tim--you met him, young fella out there--just stole your thunder.”

Glass raised to his lips, Raylan stalled. “How’s that? Not that I’m complaining.”

Art looked contemplative for a moment, like maybe he suddenly wasn’t so keen on sharing either the news or a story. He took a sip from his own glass, and cemented his decision. 

“Former Army Ranger, sharpest shot I’ve ever seen, meanest son of a gun behind a rifle, just told me he’s _gay._ ”

“Did he, now?” Raylan asked, surprised. He put away a gulp of bourbon, and Art barked out a laugh and joined him.

“Right?” Art said, misinterpreting Raylan’s mirrored expression of intrigue and disbelief. “And I thought he was a ballsy little shit before. Heh.” Art recalled the story, and Raylan found himself feeling relieved that Art wasn’t, in fact, relaying bad news. He sounded surprised, still, and bemused. They way he told it, Tim came into his office to drop off some files, then dropped the bomb. 

“And he said--something--to the effect of, _oh hey, boss, I’m gay. Just so you don’t hear it from someone else._ ” Art made a face, as if to suggest that never crossed his mind as a possibility. “I near about laughed in his face, thinking he was kidding.”

Raylan shot him a look, knowing Art like he did.

“I laughed a little,” Art admitted. “Then all that sensitivity training kicked in and I was golden.” He gave a shit-eating grin, which Raylan returned. “Asked that I not spread it around, though.”

“Well, good to know you’re a man of your word.”

Art just shook his head. “Nine months he’s been here, and I had no clue. Funny how you can overlook a thing like that.” 

“Hilarious,” Raylan agreed. He finished his bourbon and decided to test his luck. “He said that? In case you heard it from someone else?”

“Something like,” Art agreed, then caught Raylan’s meaning. His eyebrows climbed his bald head in interest. “You think there’s a spurned lover roaming the halls?”

“Could be in this very room,” Raylan said, eyes glittering. He mimed a spooky gesture with his free hand, then he grinned and continued, “Shit, no. If you really had no idea, chances are no one else did. He probably just made up some excuse to tell you.” 

Art nodded, thinking that made enough sense. As much as anything made sense, these days. He laughed a little to himself; before he came to notice Tim’s particular enthusiasm for killing people, he’d been toying with the idea of introducing him to his youngest daughter. 

“Well,” Raylan sighed and stood up. He did a lot of things in his line of work, but staying late wasn’t one of them. “I do hope to win back your affections. If I’m not the center of attention, I tend to act out.”

Art looked off into the distance and comically stroked his chin. “That explains why you’d think to arrange a duel on a crowded pier.” 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Raylan said, echoing Tim’s request. 

He went home to his crummy hotel room and wondered what Tim’s angle was, coming out just a few days after turning down Raylan’s advances in an effort to better keep quiet. He wondered into the toilet, and wondered again into a wad of tissues. 

Raylan didn’t linger on the matter, however. Tim never gave him an opportunity to ask and Ava became his one pillar of support after all of Harlan County--its criminal elite, be they friend, foe, or family--came crashing down on his life. 

The _bit of fun_ that never was became a silly fantasy that Raylan revisited less and less, until it was the farthest thing from his mind. 

But of course, there was all that complicating _proximity._


	2. (Season 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 9PM on a Saturday night! What's a girl in her twenties to do? Write fic and eat day-old Indian food, of course. The sag paneer is for me, this chapter is for you kind folks out there. It takes place during the season 2 episode, "Full Commitment." I hope you enjoy it!

Raylan was in something of a mood after being tailed by a couple of professional hitters, chased down, and forced to duck and cover to escape the spray of bullets, debris, and broken glass. As to be expected. 

That Winona was caught in the middle of things left him burning mad. Crashing his car was a sore spot, too, and not just financially. To make matters worse, Gary had to rear his ugly head to give Raylan shit under the guise of caring for his wife. If he cared for her at all, Raylan figured, he’d know where she was. 

But Raylan’s line of work taught him that shit rolled both ways, tides turned and opportunities arose. Having Tim poke around his hotel room was looking to be a strong contender for his changing luck. He checked the doors and windows, called up to the front desk and got the names of the occupants staying in adjacent units. It was textbook stuff, but Tim carried out each task with precision and zero hesitation. Tim walked the place like he owned it. 

For the most part, Raylan had given Tim his space when the younger Deputy asked for it. No innuendos, no jokes, and no more sincere propositions. And as far as Raylan could tell, Art made good on his promise and kept Tim’s revelation quiet. At least, if anyone knew and had themselves an opinion--they were smart enough to keep it out of earshot of Tim. He was, as Art had said, _the meanest son of a gun behind a rifle._ And quick, too. _Eager._

It wasn’t long before Tim caught Raylan staring after him. Or rather, he’d felt eyes on him all along, and had finally had enough. 

“Looks like I got you into my hotel, after all,” Raylan quipped, heading off any acerbic comment Tim might have for him. Raylan was coming to believe that Tim’s attitude wasn’t so much deceptively _dry_ as it was _burnt to a crisp._

“And it’s only half as desperate as your first attempt,” Tim drawled. He returned to his rifle bag and duffel on the side table backed against a window. 

Raylan ignored the comment, but continued to watch Tim. Amidst the heavy velour curtains and warm-colored plywoods that made up the walls, table, countertops, and window treatments, Tim stood out as a sharp sliver of steel. He’d shed his jacket before beginning his inspection of Raylan’s hotel room, revealing a faded blue shirt and pale arms spilling from its short sleeves. Everything from his uneasy posture to his coloring marked him as a new presence here. 

Raylan quirked a smile. He plucked his hat from his head and dropped it on the counter, then surveyed the room, complete with Tim in it. “You know, this'd be ideal.” 

“Because you’re in between girlfriends?” Tim asked while not looking up from the scope he was fashioning together from his rifle bag. “You know, Art gave me permission to shoot you.”

“Yeah, but your hands are full.”

Raylan huffed a tired laugh--it was already a hell of a night, but why not try and top it off having sex with a co-worker?--then addressed Tim plainly: “Forget about the sleeping bag. Bed’s built for two.”

“Hardly,” Tim said, still not even bothering to give it a look. He wanted to do survey the perimeter first, but had his doubts as to whether Raylan wouldn't make an immediate break for it. After their awkward in meeting and Raylan's unmet offer, Tim found it difficult to take Raylan undressing for a good sign. 

Raylan shrugged a shoulder, content only to amuse himself if Tim was going to be difficult. “That’s fine, you can sleep on top of me.”

“I told you I don’t want any of,” Tim waved a dismissive hand, indicating Raylan, _this mess._

“Yeah, but that was then.” Raylan found the whole situation of Tim as his bodyguard asinine enough coming from Art. For Tim to buy into it as well necessitated a little return fire. “I haven’t won you over by now? We’ve shot people together. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Tim said, his tone firm even in the face of Raylan’s obvious teasing. He quickly reconsidered, adding, “Actually, your stock has _plummeted._ That AUSA guy had photos of you and Ava Crowder. _In that bed._ I don’t see myself joining that club.”

“They’ve probably stopped all that," Raylan said. He loosened his tie and started undoing his shirt buttons; he really was beat. 

"A ringing endorsement," Tim observed flatly. "Sleeping bag's more than fine." He was already out the door to retrieve it. He didn’t bother closing the door, neither, so Raylan undressed in the open air until he was down only to his boxershorts and tank top. He rinsed his face and hung his shirt and tie, left his jeans draped over a chair. The room was a sorry investment, but Raylan had never felt embarrassed about it before now. Usually, his guests are there for _him_ \--in a very particular capacity--and weren’t given a tour so much as an in-depth look at the bed. 

Because of some boneheaded attempt on Raylan’s life, however, Tim was now party to Raylan’s most intimate view of the place: a lonely little room, ugly from floor to ceiling, mold and water stains included. 

When Tim returned, ratty sleeping bag under one arm, he closed the door and locked it tight.

He didn’t undress or ask to use the restroom, or even accept the beer Raylan had retrieved from the mini fridge and placed on the table for him. Raylan’s own was now half-empty and leaving a wet ring on his bedside table. 

“You mad at me for something? For this?” Raylan sat on his bed. He thought about turning on the TV, distracting them both, but decided Tim was far more interesting. 

“This? No. A fella can’t help being shot at. Something?” Tim said nothing else. 

Raylan frowned. This was old news. “What are you worried about, man? You already told Art--”

“Which I wasn’t gonna do, by the way.” Tim’s eyes were narrowed and sharp. Never mind the shitty detail and scrapped evening plans--Tim's neat, quiet life had been upturned with Raylan's unceremonious arrival. Finally, Tim gave the first and only explanation for doing what he did: “Didn’t know if I could trust you.”

Raylan thought maybe he should feel sorry about that. His intentions could in no way be termed innocent, but they weren’t malicious, either. Only, Tim didn’t know that--didn’t know _Raylan._

By now, Tim likely knew he’d acted too hastily. 

Raylan made a show of drinking in his beer, hoping Tim would come around to his presence, if not his company. “Anyway. I thought that was a good sign.” 

Tim took a seat at the desk. His scope was fully assembled, but instead of using it to scout the view beyond the parking lot, Tim only turned it over in his large hands. “I told him in confidence and now you know I told him. How’s that for a sign?” Tim’s brow furrowed. “Called me ballsy.”

Raylan raised his beer, tipping it in Tim’s favor. “He used that joke twice, then.” 

Tim left the chair and pressed his scope between the curtains. He adjusted the sight and surveyed the area. He was quiet for a long time, allowing Raylan’s joke to fall dead flat, rot, and decompose. 

“Just my luck,” he spoke at last while observing a totally empty lot. The vivid green of the device’s nightvision application added only a fleeting ounce of interest to the proceedings. “Someone takes a shot at you, and he’s got shit aim and zero follow through.”

Raylan, having given up on Tim, was now purusing messages on his phone. He next spoke to Tim on a delay. “So that’s it, then? You didn’t want to get with me so bad that you’d muddy your own reputation? To--what? Steer me away?” 

Again, Tim was quiet. He watched for movement in the nearby trees and rooftops, before remembering where he was. He lowered his scope slightly and commanded his focus into just the window’s reflection, not the world beyond it. He saw Raylan lounging in bed, phone aglow and attention elsewhere. Even when he was trying to rake Tim in, Tim was the least important aspect of the equation. What Raylan liked--evidenced by his wearing only underwear, positioned loose and long on his bed, with a beer at his side and one for Tim--was flirting. 

And that was when Tim finally figured it out: what put him and Raylan at odds was that Raylan wanted it, and Tim didn’t need it. 

Raylan was never denied, which only fed his appetite for more. He wanted _all_ of it _all the time_ , and Tim had weaned himself onto so little, he could afford to be discriminating. 

“You don’t figure so prominently into all the decisions I make in a day,” Tim said, and felt confident doing so. “So no. That’s just a happy byproduct.” 

Something dawned on Raylan--like a religious vision, he was overcome by its imagery, message, and meaning all at once. “Oh, shit.” Raylan looked up from his phone and was grinning. “That boy from the bar. It’s a thing, isn’t it?”

He was confident he’d unearthed the answer: why Tim might put him off in the first place, and still more vehemently, now. He was one of those loyal types, and as surely as he was _not_ some kept, sweet-faced boy, Tim had one of his own. 

Tim reeled back and sputtered, “There’s _no_ \--what _bar?_ ”

Raylan smiled, triumphant. “Little place outside Louisville. It was a while back. Dave Alvin was playing. I took Winona and… Could have sworn you’d spotted me, too.”

Tim ignored most of the explanation and zeroed in on the obvious: “You’re still seeing your ex-wife?”

“You still seeing this boy?” Raylan tried to remember something about him. Blonde, with features as delicate as Tim's were pronounced. 

“He’s a very nice boy,” Tim said. His tone was haughty, taken to purposefully shred Raylan’s confidence. It didn’t do the trick; Raylan’s confidence was made of stronger stuff than Tim knew.

“It’s a very dark bar,” Raylan said.

Tim turned away, and tried to envision a means why which to ignore Raylan while on assignment to preserve his life. “Green ain’t a good color on you.” It was a weak comeback, and Raylan dismissed it handily. 

“Bullshit. Green compliments my eyes.”

Tim eventually gave up on surveillance, and settled in at the table adjacent to Raylan’s bed. 

“Tell me about your boyfriend. Or--a boyfriend.” Raylan figured he’d give Tim the opportunity to hide his timeless truths within something old. “Come on. I’m sure the details will put me to sleep.” 

“You gonna tell me about yours?”

“An old one, sure.” Raylan didn’t have to give it but half a second’s thought. “Hey, you’ve met him.”

Tim’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit,” he said, then looked momentarily confused. He could scarcely believe it, never mind being told by the source. Raylan Givens was as much a product of Harlan County as its resident drug pusher-turned-hillbilly saviour, but to imagine them as a couple… “Holy _shit._ ”

Raylan waved an elegant hand. “Now you.”

“Uh, I cede the floor to you on this one.”

Raylan smirked, shook his head like he’d meant it as a joke. “I’ll tell ya when you’re older.”

Raylan laid in bed while Tim continued to play lookout. The front of the hotel room housed the unit’s only window, and it hung over Raylan’s bed like an invitation. A barrage of bullets through it would surely hit them both. Although Tim planned to spot any potential shooter--and therefore envisioned himself as the only one to get off a shot--he decided to err on the side of caution. He left the room and moved Raylan’s car, then brought his own SUV to stand like a wall between the empty street and Raylan’s room. The makeshift barrier worked, but had the added effect of blocking all light from the room. Tim returned to Raylan’s wet voice reaching out to him in complete darkness. 

“They teach you that in the Army?” Raylan’s disembodied voice asked. Tim found his way back to the table without so much as a knocked knee or stubbed toe. 

“How not to die? Sure. Lesson one.” 

“My car keys,” Raylan insisted, and Tim could hear him shifting on the bed. 

Tim kept his tone level. “They’re safe with me,” he said. 

Raylan wasn’t so easily fooled. “You keeping the shooters out or barricading me in?”

“Why can’t it be both? Ain’t that your usual fare?” The comment was irresponsibly flung from Tim’s lips and, only in the dark, he allowed himself the freedom to wear the regret he felt across his face. He wrinkled his nose, screwed shut his eyes, and generally wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Jealous?” Raylan asked, purposefully poignant and hurtful. He figured Tim was the type to mistakenly think if there was an option, he could command himself in just one way. Then, Raylan flicked on the lamp next to his bed. The glow was yellowed and warm, but weak enough that it hardly reached across the table to Tim. 

After a moment of uneasy silence, Tim leaned forward instead of back. He came into the light. 

“You don’t ever feel like you ought to say something?” It was a question caught up in everything they hadn’t been talking about, drawn from a conversation Tim must have had in his head a million times by now, but that Raylan fell into easily enough. 

“No. Why should I?”

Tim shrugged. “Does your wife know?” 

Raylan suddenly felt as though he was on the defensive; a ludacris response to have, given Tim’s otherwise strict avoidance of the issue. Raylan’s reluctance to answer the simple question was begot by its mere asking. The truth of the matter was, Raylan didn’t know if Winona knew about his proclivities. If it played a part in the divorce proceedings, even, and he was too angry and hurt to see it.

To Tim, Raylan gave a non-answer: “It’s not about me. It’s about who the other person is. I just happen to be sleeping with ‘em.”

“That’s really stupid,” Tim said slowly. “I don’t know how, but it is.” 

“What’s stupid is you sleeping on my floor.” 

“I’m getting the feeling it’s the smartest thing I’ll ever do.”

Tim decided to situate himself against the door, which Raylan thought was a needless move--who would want their head knocked into prior to shooting off a round?--before he realized Tim didn’t mean for anyone who might approach to actually _get_ as far as the door. 

“Why do you even have that in the trunk of your car,” Raylan asked, noting the tight bundle under Tim’s left arm. “You get a lot of sleepover invitations?”

“E-vites. Get with the times, old man.” 

Raylan watched Tim unfurl his sorry sleeping bag. It spilled open like a wet beach towel, lank and unappealing. Raylan found he was a little disappointed a cloud of dust and sand didn’t rise off the snap Tim gave the thing to roll it out completely. Although he couldn’t see the broken zipper, gaping hole in the bottom right corner, and threadbare seat, Raylan could tell the thing was old and worn. 

“Jesus, Tim. I’d let you into my bed even if I weren’t looking to jump you.”

Tim didn’t make the connection between his pitiable sleeping bag and Raylan’s lackluster invitation at first, because his sleeping bag was always something of a comfort, and never a burden. When he did cross those lines, he couldn’t help but screw up his steely expression with a shy smile. 

Raylan was hot shit, and he knew it. 

“I don’t mind you asking, but you’re gonna get the same answer.”

Finally, Raylan seemed to accept the terms. He could keep flirting with the hope that Tim’s resolve would waver. Tim, who knew better, could at least contain Raylan’s interest into moments such as these: the bizarre outskirts of their days, places where the world hinges just on the edge of the office, then tips clean over. 

But because Raylan could never help but angle for a fight, he pressed: “So why let me ask at all?”

Tim drew in a long breath, and was thoughtful. “It’s fun,” he said, and peevishly added: “Reaffirms my self-worth. _I’m an asshole._ Take your pick.”

Raylan tossed him the extra pillow from the bed.

“Sleep well, asshole.”

\- 

Raylan didn’t see much more of Tim the next day, particularly after ditching him in a convenience store. It didn’t take Tim long to find him, however, and Raylan was surprised to see Tim’s SUV roll up on the Bennett’s general store just moments after Raylan had arrived, himself. Any hint of elusiveness was lost on the drive back to Lexington. Every time Raylan looked into his rearview mirror, there was Tim. Riding his ass in a way that made Raylan regret ever giving alternative thought to the term. Even when he fell back and kept a reasonable distance, Raylan knew Tim was watching, scrutinizing him--which wasn’t different from most days, truth be told. 

Except now Tim was under instruction to watch Raylan’s back, and for good reason. Tim bore no illusions that Raylan was innocent in all this. He didn’t doubt Raylan gave folks cause to want him dead every goddamn day--at regular intervals, even. His stare turned sharp and judgmental, and Raylan found himself wanting for the days Tim spent meticulously not looking in his direction.

Spending the night at Winona’s helped matters, some. Tim found the house more of a challenge to survey, which kept him occupied until the late evening when, again, Raylan slipped away for another clandestine meeting. Like the one before it--and Raylan was beginning to sense a pattern--it was deserving of backup. And again, Raylan took none. 

It was only when sneaking back into the house at three in the morning that Raylan found himself delivered into Tim’s sole company. For a moment, they were both at a standstill. Raylan had lied and Tim had believed him; they were both at fault. 

Coolly, Tim asked if Raylan killed Gary. Or anyone, for that matter.

Raylan thought about how his decision to ditch Tim was wrong both times he tried it.

Raylan slunk into the living room, then dropped into the doughy couch opposite of Tim in a formidable recliner. It was an ugly thing, shapeless and dull, and Raylan instinctively knew it was Gary’s doing. They stared at each other, Raylan daring Tim to ask more stupid questions ( _"You find out who was behind the hit?"_ What was this--amateur hour?), and Tim, waiting for the answers to come voluntarily before he started taking them by force. 

Raylan had a stupid question of his own--something that had been nagging at him since early that morning. It wouldn’t endear him to Tim none, but Raylan had long given up on that front. Tim wasn’t the type to be wooed. He’d act out of necessity, not hardwon adoration or--heaven forbid, Raylan’s bread and butter--boredom. 

Maybe Raylan would luck out, and Tim favored a good, spiteful fuck. 

“Quick question. Do you perform sexual favors for money?”

Tim wore a look of genuine glee--the first Raylan had seen since their initial meeting. “Excuse me? I didn’t miss that. I just want you to hear yourself say it again.” 

He waited, expectant, until Raylan complied. 

“I handed you ten dollars for the ice cream. You got spooked. Explain.” Raylan felt stupid just saying the words. He heard them now, outside his own head, and they sounded as inane as they were wild. But Raylan's mind had already drawn its conclusions: why else would Tim be reticent to engage in some mutual getting off if there wasn't something about the arrangement that made him instinctively wary? It made enough sense, in that it excused Raylan's upfront behavior and laid the blame with a young man who had spent the last decade of his life professionally closeted. 

“Did you come to life outta a Harlequin novel? You are trying way too hard.” Tim wiped a hand over his mouth, but couldn't erase his ridiculous grin. Being thought of as some pitiable figure was exactly Tim's idea of a sick joke--it was absurd, impossible, and--he liked to think--far removed from the truth. “I thought it was a bribe. A _cheap bribe,_ to stop following you around.” 

Tim finally shut his mouth, closed his pink lips over that cheesy grin. He couldn't hold form for long, and eventually broke a second time, now with a single huff of laughter. “Jesus Christ. What next? You think I was orphaned at fourteen, led astray and into a life of prostitution and petty theft, in-and-out of juvie until some kindhearted judge gave me the choice of prison or the Army?”

Raylan shrugged. “Were you?”

“Orphaned at _seventeen,_ ” Tim corrected, leaving the rest of the bullshit on the table.

Raylan doffed his hat and massaged his aching temples. Tim wasn't often the source of his headaches--no, that honor belonged solely to Boyd Crowder--but he could be held answerable for this one.

“How was that, by the way?” Raylan sounded bitter. “I’m looking into it.” 

“Arlo?” Tim guessed, then unabashedly looked at Raylan’s sidearm. The tone of the room deflated immediately; Raylan was done feeling foolish and Tim had nothing left to laugh at. “I wouldn’t have waited around for my father to die, given the chance.” 

Raylan gave him a put-upon smile. “Well, you’re the one watching me all night. Wanna be my alibi?”

“Couldn’t drive to Harlan and back without Rachel gettin’ wind of it. Think you can buy us both off?” 

“I know she’s fond of my hat.” Raylan turned the thing over in his hands, straightened the fine leather band around its crown. It would be a small price to pay for putting Arlo down.

“And what’s in it for me?”

“I thought that’d be obvious.” 

Tim made a face. “Your boots?” he asked, purposefully clueless. 

Tired as he was, Raylan closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the smile spreading across his face was sly, and given the sound of Tim shifting in his seat, he also knew his meaning was met. “Let me make it up to you. Today, for all the shit I pulled.” 

Raylan ran his hands down his thighs, felt the sturdy denim. He looked at Tim, watched as the younger man’s eyes pitted upwards briefly, and to the staircase, like he was listening for the others in the house. Winona and Rachel; Raylan knew they weren’t so far away. 

“You comfortable, there?” Raylan asked. He felt wired and reckless. Tonight, he’d only thrown a bullet at a man to send a message. He didn’t get a shot off, and was still itching to do so. “You want me on my knees, Tim?”

“I want you…” Tim inched his legs open a little wider. Raylan felt an electric charge burn through the room. Instead of idle, he suddenly felt awake. Just when Raylan was beginning to think his shot in the dark didn’t skew wide, Tim stood up. “To cut the shit.”

Raylan let his head loll back against the couch. He stared up at the ceiling, annoyed. “Yeah, it wasn’t my best.” He ground his palms into his eye sockets, pressed hard until his skull felt swollen. “You can go back to sleep,” Raylan told Tim. “I am.”

“What, no invitation to join you this time?” His tone was dry, uninterested--but not without purpose. As sure as Raylan had first made his interest clear, Tim was still intent on setting the limits. Raylan came to the realization slowly: Tim had already started. _”Ex-wife, girlfriend. Whatever it is we’re calling her.”_

Tim was doing recon. Slowly, patiently, he was assessing a threat. He was pinpointing all Raylan’s weaknesses and strengths, categorizing them, and one by one letting them slip.

Raylan didn’t have the energy to feel offended. 

“Not in my ex-wife’s house, Tim. No.” 

“Just so we’re clear,” Tim said--a comment made only to drive a stake through Raylan’s self-styled lackadaisical sexual presence. He was not the label-spurning, free spirit he imagined himself to be. Tim didn’t believe a man could attain such a thing, even if he rejected rule and authority as gleefully as Raylan did. Selfishly, Tim wanted to force Raylan to an equally miserable conclusion. The rejection and its harshly worded terms were only partially payback for Raylan pulling that Benny Hilly-inspired disappearing act on him at the convenience store. Otherwise, Tim’s instincts were rightfully aligned with his orders: he meant to protect Raylan.

Raylan started up the stairs to Winona’s bedroom. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

\- 

Morning at Winona’s was a slow affair. That was how Raylan always remembered it, back in their first home in Georgia, as well as the second. On weekends, they’d wake late and Winona would make a massive breakfast they’d pick at over the course of the day. She’d burn toast and overcook eggs, but the woman could make French toast. Perfect, every time. She’d dust a heavy serving with powdered sugar, even spring for curls of chocolate or fresh fruit slices. It was something Raylan had never had before, or since. 

Walking down into the kitchen, Raylan saw no such thing. He wasn’t expecting her to keep up the tradition now that they were divorced and carrying on an affair, but--

Well. He’d _hoped._

The kitchen wasn’t completely without life, however. Tim was awake, sat at the kitchen counter, eating leftover pizza and drinking a beer. Instead of reading that damn magazine for the hundredth time, he plucked something off Winona’s bookshelves. It was a photo album. _Raylan,_ he’d titled it in his mind, _The Earring Years._

That said, there was just the one. Tim had to use the magnifying feature on his phone to see it in a wedding photo, but it was there--a little silver hoop, rebellious in its simplicity.

Tim glanced up and saw the real deal trudge down the steps. “Well, are you happy now? We’ve spent two nights together.”

“Somehow I’m left feeling underwhelmed.” Raylan started hunting through the cupboards for ground coffee and mugs, but kept coming across containers of tea, instead.

“What is this shit?” he murmured to himself while popping the lid open on some Sencha Kyoto loose leaf and taking an offending whiff. “Winona doesn’t drink tea.”

“It’s Gary’s, then,” Tim said, the dropped his voice and added ominously, “Or it _was._ ”

“I did not kill him,” Raylan reaffirmed. He took a moment to look around the house, and decided it didn’t suffer Gary’s absence, none. There were no equally ludacris wedding photos of Gary and Winona, nothing besides that hideous recliner to answer for his presence and tastes--or lack thereof. “Could be that he was never here.”

“Then why did I have the bowl, Bart? _Why did I have the bowl?_ ” 

Raylan stared. He understood Tim’s juvenile reference, but, _Jesus._ What a little fucking weirdo.

“You trying to be cute,” Raylan started to ask, then eyeballed Tim’s beer, “Or did you finally have one too many?”

“No such thing,” Tim said. “Guess I’m cute.”

“Adorable.”

Tim took a swig from the bottle, and didn’t know how to respond to Raylan’s bemused look. He didn’t necessarily feel shamed by his choice, but he slowly came to recognize it as questionable. Raylan didn’t let him fret for long; he gave up on the search for coffee and went to the fridge and retrieved a pint of ice cream--his own bad habit.

“Didn’t peg Winona as the scrapbooking type,” Tim said while gnawing on a pizza crust.

“Her mother made it,” Raylan told him, agreeing in his own way. Winona didn’t scrapbook; she never could reflect on the good times. She was better suited to harbour all her bad memories and turn them to canon fodder. Raylan stood opposite Tim and turned a page in the book. It showed a newspaper cut out of a shooting down in Georgia. It seemed Winona’s mother shared that same affect. “She didn’t like me much.”

“Article’s funny as hell, though,” Tim commended.

“A civilian died, Tim.”

Tim pointed enthusiastically to the picture in the article. “He got mauled by a gator. Tragedy plus time…” 

Raylan smirked, shook his head. Tim was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, but looked clean enough--like maybe he’d had a makeshift wash in the half-bath off the study. “You heading out?”

“Left a message with Art.” Tim turned another page in the book, got bored and closed it. “It’s my professional opinion you won’t die today, barring you doing something stupid.”

“I got that as a rider on my contract,” Raylan joked. “Plus, it’s Saturday and you’re off the clock. Couldn’t care less if I lived or died, so long as it ain’t on company time?”

“I wasn’t gonna say…”

Rachel came quietly down the stairs, looking fresh-faced. She looked upon her fellow Deputies, not surprised that Tim was up, but intrigued by Raylan’s presence.

“You boys stay up all night?” she asked, and plucked an apple from a jade-green ceramic bowl positioned at the precise center of the kitchen table. Raylan had bought that bowl for Winona while on assignment in New Mexico. She loved it--the scar Raylan picked up on the same trip, less so. It was a mess of pock marks on the soft of his forearm, the physical memory of being stuck with a length of barbed wire. 

Tim answered Rachel: “Naw, we fell asleep after the pillow fight. Got all tuckered out.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Sorry I missed it. I’m off.” She gave a tired wave, phone in hand. 

Tim frowned at her. “Art replied to your e-mail?”

She gave him a flat look. “Like Art knows how to answer e-mail on his phone. I sent a text.”

“Shit,” Tim said, but his heart wasn’t in it. At least one of them should get to escape suburbia. 

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I asked after you, too. And I quote, _dismissed, soldier._ ” 

With a sarcastically rendered salute, Tim dropped off the stool at the counter and left the kitchen in a hurry, abandoning his warming beer and cold crusts. Rachel looked at Raylan--of all people--disapprovingly. 

“I didn’t force it on him,” he said, and in defiance took up the bottle and finished what Tim had left. 

If he thought the room might be amenable to it, he’d have made a joke about this being the only way he and Tim would ever share fluids. Even if chances were Rachel knew about Tim, she didn’t have even the slightest inkling about Raylan. Or else she’d be too polite to even _pretend_ to understand. And Tim wouldn’t laugh, because since gaining some self respect he’d lost his sense of humor. 

Raylan didn’t think it was a very worthwhile trade-off. 

So he kept quiet, and returned the look of annoyance Tim shot him when he returned and found his beer empty.

Having collected his rifle and sleeping bag from the study just off the living room, Tim followed Rachel to the door. 

He called over his shoulder to Raylan, “You tell the girlfriend we said bye.”

“Ex-wife,” Raylan corrected.

“That so,” Tim said, hanging idly in the doorway.

Raylan stuck his spoon upright in his ice cream and set it aside, as if his response to Tim’s offhand comment was of the utmost importance. He looked at Tim when he spoke, his words tantamount to nothing less than a prophetic reading. “Yeah. Cleared it up last night.”

The way Raylan said it, the comment surely carried some weight. Even Rachel noticed this, and poked her head back into the house. She looked from Raylan--his expression hard and set--to Tim, who looked worried. The crease between his eyes dug in so deep Rachel had to wonder if his skull was split there, clear down the middle. 

“You told her?” Tim demanded. His grip on the strap to his rifle bag tightened. 

“I asked her,” Raylan corrected. His gaze never wavered from Tim’s. “ _She_ told _me._ ” 

Rachel frowned. It was just _smalltalk._

“Whatever,” she said, thinking, _White boys._

“It’s part of the reason she left me,” Raylan continued after Tim gave the barest of nods to indicate that Rachel had gone to her car and was out of earshot. “I guess she knew all along.”

“Sucks,” Tim said.

“Yep,” Raylan said.

It wasn't until after Tim and Rachel had gone that Raylan noticed his pint of ice cream. It was Chaney's brand, the only one in a freezer stocked with that Pinkberry _frozen yogurt_ bullshit. As a connoisseur of the stuff, Raylan could tell by its density and the amount of ice crystals lining the side of the carton that it had melted and been re-frozen.

Raylan didn't finish off the pint, which was a shame. He didn't think he'd be invited around again anytime soon.


	3. (Season 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is so late--I'm sorry! Working in an office and wearing slacks all day is killing my sense of whimsy. I'm still working on this and Don't Look So Damn Tragic, but updates will be few and far between. :/
> 
> This one takes place in/around/between the season 3 episodes, “The Man Behind the Curtain” and “Watching the Detectives.” AKA, when Raylan asks a favor of Tim and it blows up in both their faces.

Raylan was already sat in the conference room, getting an earful from Agent Barkley before the man decided his audience could be doubled, and there was yet a smart-mouthed Deputy to meet that need. 

Barkley stuck his balding head out of the conference room, and shouted louder than necessary: “You!”

Tim leaned back in his seat and pointed to his face with both index fingers. “Me?”

“Yes, goddamnit. _You!_ ”

Tim joined them without comment, dropped into a seat at the conference table, drew up a knee and got comfortable. He had already made an enemy in Agent Barkley once before by covering for Raylan, and wasn’t doing himself any favors by soundboarding the same tired lines for the cowboy, now. 

Neither Raylan nor Tim quaked in Barkley’s presence. Raylan, because he genuinely didn’t care, and Tim because he’d been yelled at by professionals, and Barkley didn’t make the grade. Further, Tim didn’t think his career was much endangered by a man who couldn’t seem to remember his name. 

Told that his friend in the FBI was suspended as a result of Tim’s asking for favors on Raylan’s behalf, Tim finally blinked. Raylan, Art, and Barkley all looked at him, some more curious for his response than others. Barkley wanted to rattle Tim, to incite him to turn on Raylan. Tim did no such thing; rather, he met Barkley with dull exasperation, like he was dealing with a surly teen. 

“You gotta be kidding me.”

It was an insult--Tim’s way of diminishing Barkley’s standing without expressly lobbing barbs. At any rate, Barkley was too full of himself to see the intent behind Tim’s gravelly drawl. Barkley was downright gleeful in this, the one punishment he could dish out to his own underlings, if not Art’s. 

Raylan waded back into the fray, and Art came to both their aid, but the damage was done. Tim, already in too deep, jumped aboard Raylan’s last-ditch effort to clear them of suspicion. It was a half-assed effort, but Raylan sold it well enough that it was Art who dismissed them, not Barkley. 

Leaving the conference room, Tim pushed his chair out into Raylan’s way. Raylan sidestepped it without a hitch, and by their desks they spoke for a time without really saying anything. Raylan boasted that he’d come out on top, that Quarles was still in his purview. 

“Well this has been a banner day for you,” Tim commended, his tone and smile tight.

Raylan loosened his posture, stood exasperated before Tim. One of his arms was outstretched just enough that Tim was within reach. Raylan instinctively made a grab for him when Tim started to turn his back. He meant to extend an apology.

Tim whipped back around when Raylan touched his arm, completely oblivious to the intended goodwill. He stared Raylan down for a moment, then spoke lowly, “You wanna fuck me over, too?”

“I think you know what I’d like to do.”

“You got something to say to me, say it,” Tim snapped. He was angry with himself for trusting Raylan even after voicing his own concerns. Things played out just as Tim predicted--so well, in fact, that Tim might as well have given Raylan the idea himself. The security team--and his friend, specifically--knew Raylan was sniffing around. Raylan, never one for subtlety, was discovered. What did Tim expect?

Raylan quirked the kind of smile that suggested he had no idea where Tim’s aggravation stemmed from--as if he couldn’t trace its bloodlines to this very incident, or Raylan’s interest in him in general. “Is your friend still in the city? Can I buy you both a round?” 

Tim dropped into his chair and gave himself a moment to cool down. He rested his hands on his keyboard, as if to rally himself for work and discourage any further interaction with Raylan. It didn’t do the trick. “Yeah, okay.” He said it to his computer screen, and only looked to Raylan after a moment’s delay. Raylan was already looking at him.

“Had plans to meet up with her tonight, anyway. In the case of her actually taking my head off, just pour the whiskey in manually.”

“Whiskey, is it?”

Tim looked Raylan up and down. “For as long as you’re buying.”

They both retreated to their respective desks, so if Barkley stuck around he’d know he was unsuccessful in driving either man away. Tim got called up to play sniper for an incident downtown, so he left his friend’s name and number with Raylan in case the standoff went long. 

“Sometimes SOG gets the dumb idea that these things ain’t gonna end exactly like they’re gonna,” he told Raylan while checking out his sniper rifle from the armory. 

“They want to save lives or something?” Raylan asked, then handed Tim a vest. 

Tim frowned and did not accept the kevlar. “That’s what shooting him is for.”

When Tim left, he was ready for anything. But the hostage taker ended up taking his own life, so the matter was made moot. Tim returned to the office feeling edgy and wondering if he should have gotten a second shot off--his first was to the man’s shoulder, and it did the job: the man took a step back from the building ledge upon which he was perched. But the guys on the roof didn’t get to him in time, and he hurled his body like a rag doll over the edge of a Best Western.

Tim got back to the courthouse and was peeling off the borrowed SOG gear before 5pm. His hands stilled on the various straps and velcro pieces when none other than Agent Barkley stepped onto the elevator. He made it inside just before the doors were set to close, delayed by a moment’s pause spent staring at the man inside decked out like _Judge Dredd._ Tim flipped the mirrored visor up-- _Christ, where did SOG get this shit_ \--and gave Barkley the friendliest smile he could muster.

Barkley sneered right back. 

As the elevator scaled the building at a crawl, Tim held his rifle longways, and drummed a tired beat against the magazine cover and matte-black barrel. 

“On the hunt for Anthony Turner?” Barkley asked snidely. 

“Who?” Tim asked, innocently enough. The elevator stopped and pulled itself apart, and Tim stepped out.

\- 

The bar was more hip than either Raylan’s or Tim’s tastes would normally allow. There were magazines on every table, scattered along the tremendous bar. They weren’t glossy like fashion magazines, or particularly thick, and they had titles like _Mindmeld,_ _Pornographic Lawn Jockeys,_ and _GOURD._ Every issue was numbered in the single digits. Raylan picked up one with a cover of a crudely drawn lion playing the drums, flipped through its pages to see editorials about homegrown coffee and photo spreads of wildly difficult to master sailing knots. It made sense, then, that it was Tim’s friend Marta who chose it. A local favorite, she claimed to have once seen Bill Murray drinking a chocolate milkshake and _destroying_ a burger at the bar. 

“So now I’m buying burgers?” Raylan asked. He’d arrived just a few minutes after Tim and Marta, and caught the tail end of her story.

“Three,” Marta agreed. “I don’t know what you assholes are having.” 

Raylan stuck out his hand. “Perhaps you recognize me from peeking out of your windowless van. I’m Raylan Givens.” 

“The Deputy I have to thank for my unexpected vacation,” Marta said, her tone eerily calm. She looked Raylan up and down, as if deciding on the spot whether it was worth the suspension. 

“How long?” Tim asked, his expression more chagrined than even Raylan’s.

Marta shrugged. “Until the end of the month. Not so bad, but worth the burgers and unlimited beer, I should think.” 

“I do sincerely apologize, Agent Gomes,” Raylan said, turning up the charm.

“For?” Marta pressed. Above all else, she wanted acknowledgement that this wasn’t mere human error; Raylan hadn’t taken every precaution with the information given, and she paid the price as a result.

But like she suspected of anyone who could talk Tim into favors, he was much too smooth for that. 

“Your boss, mostly. And getting caught.”

“A true gentleman,” Marta rolled her eyes from Raylan to Tim.

“Ain’t he, though?” Tim said. His hands were deep inside his jacket pockets, and although he was leaning easily against a calming pea-green wall towards the bar’s entrance, he looked uncomfortable. They took a table in back, away from the loudspeakers and stage that promised live music later in the evening. 

Marta towered over Tim. It was something Raylan only noticed when they were walking, because otherwise Marta seemed to slouch. She had a slim, athletic build, and seemed the type to live her life in yoga pants when she wasn’t wrinkling a sharp suit while sat at a desk. The FBI may have proved less glamorous than she’d imagined, but reality hadn’t yet told that to her figure. She laughed loudly, swore only in Spanish, and routinely lost her glasses in her mass of curly hair. 

"You know," she said to Raylan over their first round of beers, "He did warn me. Said there’s more subtlety in Elton John than I'd find in you." She looked directly at his hat.

Raylan smiled. "But you caved and told him, anyway?"

“I owed him for some digging he did on my behalf.” She shrugged, elaborated loosely: "Some local departmental shit I wasn't supposed to have access to." She studied Raylan’s face as she spoke, because somewhere settled between the good looks and easy confidence was something very interesting. "Are you surprised?"

“You know, more than I should be,” Raylan admitted. “Guess I thought he was only doing that shit for me.” 

Marta took the comment as a kind of commendation in her favor. Tim supposed she didn’t know Raylan well enough to understand that he was only ever capable of congratulating himself. “You jealous?”

Raylan shrugged and pretended to consider it. “Did his intel help with you case?”

Marta nodded without hesitation. “Made it. The bust was good.”

“Well there you go,” Raylan said. “I'm jealous as hell. My case is shot so wide open I could drive a tractor trailer through it.”

"Sharing sensitive information, treading on the line of command,” Tim waved a flippant hand, "I do it for all my friends."

"So the gang’s all here?" Marta smiled closed-mouthed and coy. Her lips were a jagged little line, and they portrayed a kind of twisted confidence that clued Raylan in on why Tim was friends with this woman.

Their food arrive, the burgers fat and sloppy. Coupled with beer and fries, it was in whole a bigger meal than Raylan had anticipated, but he was glad for it.

“That’s what I like about you, Tim,” Marta said, stirring up conversation even after it had settled. “You learn the rules, then figure out the quietest way to break them. Objective first, glory second. It’s what we in the biz call an _M.O._ ”

“Wild idea,” Raylan said, his eyes bright and teasing. He studied the two, detected a sense of shared camaraderie Tim didn’t seem to cultivate with too many people. “How is it you two know each other?” he asked, suddenly wising to the feeling that this wasn’t some professional relationship turned friendly. There was history between them borne of something greater than, say, polite chat over bad coffee and inter-departmental dealings. 

“School,” Tim answered promptly, then revised: “High school.” The distinction being, Marta’s educational pursuits didn’t end when Tim’s did. It was sort of an unspoken assumption that of the three of them, Tim was remarkable in not taking the college route, and for him any forms of civilian schooling ended with the public system. 

“No shit,” Raylan grinned. He supposed they were both only a decade out. He thought it was sweet they were still friends, and didn’t glaze over how his own circumstances must skew his perspective, some. Raylan considered most everyone he knew from high school to be enemies. “Well now I got to know, Marta, was he always the pillar of righteousness sat before us today?”

Marta bit her lip. “Good question,” she said, her expression apologetic. “I didn’t know Tim very well, then. I think, uh,” she turned to Tim with a hopeful smile, “You played baseball?”

“Got cut from baseball,” Tim corrected, amused. 

“Track?” Marta tried again.

“I was just running everywhere ‘cause I didn’t have a car.”

Marta hung her head in mock-shame. Curious, Raylan asked, “What position? In baseball.”

“Outfield.”

Raylan barked out a laugh. “You got cut from outfield?”

“Yeah. Such bullshit.”

Raylan’s eyes shined, amused where he kept the rest of his expression straightlaced. “You a good catcher?”

“Whole team thought so.”

It could have been that Marta didn’t catch the joke, or possibly wasn’t in on the truth from which it stemmed. Raylan just quirked an impressed little smile, while Tim dropped his gaze to the spread on the table. 

They chatted easily about Marta’s career, how and _why on God’s green earth_ she became an FBI agent. Their evening was interrupted by a call Marta answered immediately and without excusing herself. It was a request for her return to the surveillance team. 

Tim frowned. “What about your suspension?”

“If Barkley actually gave a shit, he’d have fired me. I just laid it on thick.” Marta grinned, tapped her empty plate. “Free burger.”

“You need a ride?” Tim asked, already rising.

“Uh, not from you, my pint-sized alcoholic friend.”

“I had two beers--” 

“It’s eight in the evening. Am I supposed to believe you weren’t throwin’ ‘em back since five?” She dropped into his space and did something Raylan was certain Tim hated--she patted his cheek. Again, it was something earned by seniority. “Figured Mark would pick you up, anyway.” Then, purposefully, she added: “You live nearby.” She waved a hand, started in on what she believed was a compromise. “I’ll take your car, park it at the courthouse, get picked up from there--”

“I’ll call you a taxi,” Tim interrupted, and the issue was final. He didn’t appreciate the insinuation he was unfit to drive eight blocks. 

They left to settle matters in the parking lot, and Raylan was surprised when Tim returned almost ten minutes later. He wasn't sure Tim wouldn't just take off.

“She’s cute,” Raylan said when Tim took his seat. “She got a brother?”

“She did," Tim said shortly, and Raylan figured that's how Tim knew her. 

“But she’s Catholic, right? So there are probably some more running around.” Raylan shrugged. “Get yourself the pick of the litter.” 

What next spread across Tim’s face was a genuine smile--something Raylan was able to notice now, knowing Tim as long as he did. He could tell, because the smile was silent, toothless, and downcast. Tim even closed his eyes, briefly. Raylan decided he didn't see that expression nearly enough, and was inclined to get to know it better.

Raylan reached over the table and brushed an eyelash off Tim’s cheek with his thumb. Tim didn’t so much as jerk away, let alone break Raylan’s offending hand. He was too stunned to do anything save for stare, wide-eyed in disbelief. Raylan puts his hand back on the table, although it’s still well into Tim’s side, breaching his privacy even there.

“You’re shy.” Raylan said. His breath was sweet from the bourbon. “That’s okay.” 

“What are you doing,” Tim asked--though it was more of a rhetorical question, and whatever Raylan had to say in his defense was no answer Tim would accept. His eyes flickered left and right, quick like a shot, scanning the patrons for telltale expressions of disgust.

Raylan leaned back and smiled, because Tim was funny sometimes. There was no one in the bar but twenty-somethings and hipsters in their thirties; no one they knew. “I’m making an effort, here. Really trying.” 

Tim sucked down a mouthful of beer. _This again._ “So--my friend?” 

“Had a good time,” Raylan shrugged. “So am I. So are you.”

“I was,” Tim corrected. His tone was just shy of petulant. He looked around the room again, as if searching for the delayed reactions. Despite the threat of expensive whiskey, Tim ordered just the one, then stuck to beer. Raylan, meanwhile, was moving fast along towards _drunk._

Raylan leaned forward and tried his hand at all the secretive bullshit Tim seemed to require. He whispered conspiratorially, “I can’t be nice to you?”

“It’s unnerving as hell.”

“Well I ain’t gonna lie. I’m even nicer in bed.” Raylan plucked a cold french fry from Tim’s plate. “Is that another deal breaker for you?”

“You asking because you’re making a list, or just ignoring everything I say, anyway?”

“Hm? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Raylan was grinning, but Tim looked downright miserable. He toyed with his plate, pushed a few of the remaining fries into a ketchupy grave. "This... Is really pressing your luck." 

Tim didn't have to say any more. Raylan knew all along that he was teetering just too close to the public sphere, and in particular, a place Tim would _actively_ not humor his efforts. In this case, the look Tim was giving him was downright threatening. 

Raylan supposed it made sense. He was the only one playing around a secret, now.

"Oh," Raylan said, understanding. It _was_ a threat.

"Yeah," Tim replied with a downward twist of his lips. He wasn't thrilled to be making it, but that was the point. He brought his glass to his lips and took a long, slow drink. 

Raylan watched his the practiced rhythm of his bobbing adam’s apple as he chugged down the beer, and decided to call his bluff. 

"What the hell would you even say?" He asked, and was sure to smile, to couch the question in brave amusement. 

Tim shrugged, and did not smile. "That you knew I was gay before I told Art, and that you propositioned me."

It was simple, and in every respect true, but to hear it aloud and spoken with such certainty made Raylan uneasy. 

"Makes it sound like I was trying to extort a blowjob," Raylan said in a tone that spoke for his second point: _it wasn't like that._

"From a younger, closeted employee," Tim agreed quietly. "I know what it sounds like, Raylan. That's why I'd say it."

"You wouldn't." It wasn't a threat answered with an unspoken one of Raylan's own. Rather, it was simple. Conversational. Raylan even said it with a shrug. 

"If I decide I need you to stop all this, I will."

" _If_ you decide that, all ya gotta do is ask."

“What the hell have I been saying since _day one_ \--” Tim stopped himself from saying anything too specific as the waitress approached, an unordered drink and napkin in hand. 

“A gift,” the waitress announced proudly. “From the two lovely ladies across the bar, there.” She sat the glass of fine bourbon on the table in front of Raylan before turning to Tim. “They said no offense, but you’re a little young.”

Raylan accepted the drink, asked after its origin, and in turn sent a warm smile and a tip of his hat towards two women across the bar, all dressed up in short dresses and big smiles. Raylan ordered drinks for them in turn, and with them the waitress carried Raylan’s regrets. _He’s here with a friend, and he doesn’t doubt you beautiful ladies will suffer any dearth of prospective dates for the evening._ Tim read the waitress’ lips and figured it was something to that effect. He’d watched the entire exchange--first curiously, now frustratedly. 

Tim shook his head and tore his attention away from the women. He set upon Raylan with a piercing stare. “Why would you ever sleep with _men_ if--” 

“Because I want to," Raylan cut in. He didn't want to let Tim finish saying something so pitiful. 

_‘Men,’_ a transparent stand in for _‘me.’_ Raylan wondered if Tim was always so disillusioned about his own good looks, or if it was just something he felt was overshadowed in Raylan’s appeal. Granted, if Tim escalated himself to Raylan’s saturated level of styling, he’d be walking around in nothing less than combat fatigue bottoms and a sweat-stained tank top. 

Across the table, Tim’s eyes were clear and his posture was strong; he was set upon getting an answer. It'd be cute if it weren't so goddamn sorry. Raylan looked at Tim for a long time, thinking perhaps now would be the moment Tim broke. He'd see Raylan's interest stood side-by-side with another opportunity, and notice that Raylan hadn't abandoned him for kinder company. 

But Tim didn't so much as blink. 

"Don't you want to?" Raylan asked. 

Tim narrowed his eyes, and while he again reached for his beer, he did not partake. "Is that a trick question?"

"I ain't going to hold you to a verbal contract," Raylan smiled. "Especially in your inebriated state."

"Fuck off," Tim said, upturning his glass. He refilled it when the waitress next came by, leaving another pitcher. 

Raylan considered his bourbon. He drank half of it down, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was a fine batch, worth savoring. Raylan drank the rest slow and waited out Tim’s silence.

“I’m not… _with_ that guy from the bar. Meeting there was his idea. He’s from Louisville or someplace.” Tim shared the sentiment piecemeal, like each syllable was waiting somewhere inside him, only uttered once fully saturated with alcohol. Raylan knew he had a whole host of things like that buried deep inside himself, but there were different ways to fill a man up and carry those things to the surface. For Raylan, it was affection. Winona once told him he was an emotional leech, drawing from her and others but never giving anything back. That was at a low point in their relationship, when they were running out of metaphors to speak through. 

She’d told him once, angry that he hadn’t so much as blinked when she told him about feelings she was having for a man she’d met, _“It’s like talking to a wall, except at least the paint would start to peel off a wall for all the talkin’ I’m doin’ at it.”_

 _“Oxidation,”_ Raylan had agreed calmly, and she’d pulled at her hair and disappeared for three nights.

Though now, in hindsight, Raylan supposed he understood one of the digs she got in about the man she was flirting with: _“He’s handsome. You’d like him.”_

Raylan followed Tim’s lead and topped off his glass. He didn’t want to think about how long Winona must have known, and if that was the reason she was always so hesitant towards the idea of children--or anything, really, that would cement their partnership. She’d amassed this great boulder of doubt about her husband, and Raylan never knew.

“You ever see a fella more than once?” Raylan asked. He didn’t like to think about himself while he drank. It never seemed to yield positive results.

Tim pursed his lips before admitting, “No.”

Raylan sported his cheesiest smile. “So you’re available.”

The look on Tim’s face--well. Sufficient to say, it was unexpected.

Pinched between the brows, drawn at the mouth--Tim looked like he’d been levied some terrible insult. Raylan was now audience to a version of Tim Gutterson he’d never seen before. The usually dry and unflappable young professional--adept in everything he did, from firing a sniper rifle to hurling insults--looked as though he’d been force-fed something awful. Like a rank piece of meat was just sat on his tongue, and because withstanding its presence was preferable to giving in, Tim suffered the punishment.

Raylan frowned. “Hey--” 

“What do you still want from me?” Tim asked, his expression hopelessly embittered. “I already told you I didn't want to, that we couldn't. Are you hung up on fucking contractions? No, all right? _No._ ”

Raylan sat up straight in his seat--anything to physically back off. “Okay.”

Tim’s ruined expression turned hard. It was like he decided to chew and swallow the rotten mystery meat with gusto. “'Cause I'm doing alright bringing none of _that_ into the office. You could learn something.”

Something about the line threw Raylan off his game. He snorted meanly, smiled and bit his bottom lip all at once. "Christ Almighty. How long you been at this? A year, maybe?" 

He ignored what they both knew--that Tim had more accommodations than Raylan would see in two lifetimes, and nary a smudge on his record. But Tim was young, fresh out the gate. Raylan’s further down the track. 

"Get ready to suffer, son, because a year ain’t nothing. I got eighteen years, Tim. And what I've learned? Is that you trust your partner. The work deteriorates when you don't.”

Tim didn’t shrink back from Raylan’s hard reply. He spit one right back, challenging every assumption between them that Raylan knew any better because he’d gotten away with it longer. 

“Do you remember why you just dropped $80 on burgers and beer? Because I trusted you and you fucked up." It suddenly struck Tim that Raylan’s insinuation might not be about him at all. "Did you do this before? With a partner?"

The question was voiced genuinely; for all Tim felt he had to fear and distrust from Raylan, somehow this did not register. Tim did not believe if there was something Raylan had a habit of doing, that he wouldn’t be better at it. And for all his staying power, Tim knew he’d been weak before. To have met Raylan at his best would be to accept defeat. 

Tim knew he’d come close already. Uncommon occurrences, all of them--where he might have said something favorable, given an inch and been swept away. Some he managed to stamp down, some were said under the guise of a wry joke. They each carried after a bad day, an empty lead, or something else entirely that Tim could never uncover with words. It was a surge of loneliness endowed with indefensible self-hatred, because his denial was self-inflicted. There were so many instances Tim tied himself in knots in an attempt to avoid, from the simple-- _hey. You busy?_ \--to the absurd-- _$210,000 in forgotten money. We should run off to Mexico. Start a cult. What the hell are we doin’ here?_

Tim could kick himself--he knew he’d let the latter slip. 

"No," Raylan answered after a beat. "I was scared, like you are." 

Tim gave him a smart look for the comment, but admittedly couldn’t shoot it down. The waitress came by again to clear away their plates. It felt like it took minutes for the girl to complete her task, and all the while Tim and Raylan were left to stare at the dwindling pitcher of beer sat at the center of the table, and think about what it really was that Raylan had said.

Raylan ordered more to drink before the girl had gone, and for a time Tim just watched his colleague throwback generous helpings of bourbon until his only option was to start talking, or forget ever saying a word about it. 

"I'll admit,” Raylan said after his supply had diminished, “He was in the Houston office. I was in Dallas. We didn't sit three feet from the other, but. Tim. It can be good with someone in the service. Someone who knows.”

“You say _service_ like you know the meaning of the word,” Tim said. There was bite to the comment sharper and more damning than anything Raylan had yet heard. Tim stood from the table, and lingered only a moment. “I don’t need to be convinced of anything. Thanks for the meal.” 

“Tim--” Raylan held his hands out, and gestured like he meant to make a point. Instead, he only offered: “I’m drunk.” 

“No shit, you drank enough to fill a kiddie pool.” 

“I shouldn’t drive.”

Tim opened his mouth, then promptly closed it into a sneer. “Oh, come on. You’re better than this.” Raylan gave him a look as if to say, _No, I don’t think so,_ and poured himself what was left of the pitcher. “Well don’t _keep_ drinking.”

“Robert Quarles intimated to me that we’d meet again. I don’t mind keeping him waitin’ til I’ve got all my faculties… in order.”

“You really think he’d take a shot at you, like this?” Tim found it strange that most of the maniacs Raylan tangled with had a strong sense of honor, such to the point that they’d forgo an easy opportunity if the theatrics were lacking. What’s a standoff with a man who can hardly stand up?

“I know you read the file,” Raylan said. 

Tim had. There was a great deal more than the regular shit for anyone in Theo Tonin’s employ: intimidation, suspected hits, disappearances, drug charges, trafficking of illicit materials. Quarles kept himself fairly clean, all things considered. But there were mentions of assaults and a case of arson--suspected, neven proven. There were allegations, all retracted. There were boys. 

Tim, like Raylan--who’d done his share of skulking around and trolling for cock--knew well enough what that meant.

Not that Raylan imagined such a fate for himself if he were caught unawares in Quarles’ line of fire. Rather, it spoke to how little Quarles valued human life. If he was inclined to murder those who brought him pleasure, what hope did those who caused him grief have?

“You can sleep it off on my couch,” Tim allowed stiffly. “And you find your own way back here in the morning, ‘cause I’m not gonna be late on account of you.” 

“Much obliged,” Raylan said. He fumbled for his wallet and emptied it of bills. He overpaid by a bill or two, but Tim didn’t correct him. 

When he stood, he needed a moment to collect himself. He perched hold hands on his narrow hips, and made like he was staring at the floor--except his eyes were closed. 

They left the bar and Raylan--for his own good--didn’t attempt any further conversation. 

Tim did live nearby, because Raylan left like he was bundled into the car and drawn out of it for convenience’s sake alone. The apartment building, like Raylan had seen once before, was still unremarkable. There were many open spaces in the parking lot, which Raylan supposed accounted for how quiet the area was, despite backing on to a busy street.

The walk upstairs felt longer than the drive from the bar, but that might have been Raylan misplacing his feet, and touching each step twice. He was only scarcely aware of Tim’s firm grip around his bicep, impatiently leading him inside.

They closed the door on the chilly night air. Raylan blinked, steadied himself, and looked around Tim’s tiny apartment. It was tidy--given the limited space, Tim couldn’t afford clutter. A single sock on the livingroom floor could be visible from anywhere else in the space. Although not ideal, it was the best Tim could afford on his own. Perhap optimistically, he’d envisioned a place he no longer felt constantly watched or judged by others. But in the months he’d lived there, Tim had turned every facet of the place into a reason not to do something. _It was too small, an embarrassing fit for a man Tim’s age. The units were too close together, someone would either see or hear him with company._ The commentary--however unreliable and nonsensical--traveled through Tim’s head nonstop. It disturbed every new routine he tried to make for himself. Eventually, Tim stopped trying, and accepted that maybe solitude was its own reward. There was no hiding from anyone if he kept _everyone_ at bay. 

There was a kitchenette fit into one corner of the room main room, a small washer/dryer unit in the other. Tim’s couch and television mirrored their positioning, and a bookshelf evened out the farthest wall. Just under the window and beside the bookshelf, Raylan noticed the one thing that didn’t square with the rest of the neat little space: a litter box.

Raylan blinked. “You got a cat?”

“Yeah.”

 _“Why.”_ His tone was completely earnest. 

“You got me there, Raylan.” Tim propped Raylan against the kitchen counter. The act necessitated the presence of Tim’s hands on Raylan’s sides. Raylan complied, but all the while kept his hands out in front of him, slightly raised, palms open. It was a gesture of appeasement, and a promise--however foggily understood to Raylan now--that he would make no further overtures to Tim, physical or otherwise. 

“Let me ask you something, though,” Raylan said, as if he’d been carrying on a conversation that Tim wasn’t aware of. 

“Bathroom’s on your right, you gotta hold the handle down--”

“How’d you meet that guy?” 

“From the bar? It was just a hookup.”

“Yeah but--”

“There’s a thing. On phones.” Tim tried to keep his explanation vague, but Raylan had him beat with a dull-eyed stare. 

“I know what fucking Grindr is, Tim.” Like it was evidence to further his case for being in-the-know, Raylan reasoned: “I use the ice cream emoji every goddamn day. I’m a technological _savant._ ”

Then, Raylan stared very intently at Tim, blinked, and managed to collect himself.

“You got your picture up somewhere, is what I’m asking.” Raylan dropped his hands to his hips again. Tim’s gaze followed them, then abruptly snapped back. 

“Not of my face, no.”

“Your dick?” Raylan asked, his hand fumbling for the phone in his pocket. Tim didn’t doubt Raylan had the stamina to search through a parade of local cock until he found a spread he believed to be Tim’s.

Tim’s mouth twisted to avoid a smile. “No. It’s, uh. My hand.”

Raylan squinted at him, disbelieving. “Your hand.”

“Next to a ruler, for scale.” Without irony, Tim added: “Men really respond to it.”

Raylan belt over again slightly, like he had at the bar, but this time it was to hide his laughter. 

“Wait here,” Tim said, ignoring him. He circled around to the bathroom to retrieve a sheet and blanket from the linen closet. When he returned, however, Raylan was gone. He’d found his way into Tim’s bedroom--not a difficult task by any measure, but he was fairly drunk--and collapsed onto the bed. The single bedroom was almost as big as the general living area--which is to say, small. 

Raylan was breathing heavily into Tim’s pillow--a sound akin to a snore, except Tim knew better. Genuine snoring from Raylan could wake the dead.

Tim turned Raylan’s head towards one side, then kicked a trash can out from the bathroom and onto the floor next to the bed. He worked a plastic bag into the bin, and finished things off by haphazardly throwing a blanket over Raylan’s spread form. 

Tim traded his jeans for sweats and stripped away his dress shirt to reveal only a spot-stained tee. _Coffee,_ he thought, had once dribbled down the front. 

He fed the cat, who had disappeared into hiding at the first inkling of company, then drank two large glasses of water at the sink. Tim refilled it for a third time, but now left it on his bedside table for Raylan to find. 

Upon returning to the kitchen, Tim sat on the cold linoleum floor to watch his cat bite and crunch into her dinner. He placed a tentative hand on her back and felt her heat. She was small enough that Tim’s hand fit over her neatly. When Raylan finally let rip a snore from the bedroom, the cat stilled. Tim gave her a reassuring scratch behind the ears, then left her alone.

He took a beer from the fridge, next, uncapped it and nursed it on the couch. He hadn’t been drinking since five, like Marta had accused him earlier. He didn’t argue the point because normally, he would have done just that. But expecting Raylan made Tim cautious, and he went into the evening with clear eyes and a blood alcohol level the lowest Tim’s known since he was in grade school.

The cat--affectionately known as Hey, Cat--scaled the couch and stepped over Tim, eventually settling in the dip of the couch back, pressed flush against the wall. She had breath reeking of rubbery cat food, but Tim didn’t much mind. From his seat on the couch, he could see directly into his bedroom. He watched the steady rise and fall of Raylan’s dozing form. Even with the occasional snoring, there was definite appeal. 

Tim drank his beer slowly, but finished it quickly all the same. With a warming anger in his belly, Tim began to imagine all the things Raylan probably expected out of this move. Tim’s sudden willingness, because how much more private and secluded could they get than his own bedroom? Or maybe Raylan factored in a combative attitude on Tim’s part, resulting in wacky hijinx and the stubborn insistence of, _well, with my bad back and your night terrors, we have no choice but to share the bed!_

Tim huffed a small laugh. He’d watched that very porno, and as heartfelt as the worker’s comp side-story was, it wasn’t for him. Where it counted, Tim was precise in every measure of his life. He never missed a shot, never acted without intent, and never, _ever_ lost himself to chance. 

Raylan was only one-for-three; he’d take _every_ shot, and taking chances was a good amount of that. Intent was all they shared, which answered for their current predicament: Raylan got himself into Tim’s bed, but Tim made sure he was there alone.

Even displaced in his own home and relegated to a lumpy couch, Tim felt triumphant. Raylan’s arms were spread wide and empty. His lips met an unwashed pillowcase. The weight he felt across his middle was not some affectionately draped arm, but a ratty old afghan Tim did not, in fact, bring back from Afghanistan. 

That shit was straight up T.J.Maxx bargain bin.

Tim laid longways on the couch, but kept his head turned toward his bedroom and Raylan. He drew up an arm, made himself as comfortable as possible. He stared until he realized he’d stopped congratulating himself on foiling Raylan’s cheap ploy. Instead, Tim found himself in the precarious position of simply observing Raylan, and was no longer concerned with his reason for being there. Tim’s mind was blank. 

Maybe, Raylan already got what he wanted. He’d pigeonholed himself into Tim’s life, if not as a partner than at least as a spectacle. And he was-- _a vision,_ sleeping loose and languid, his larger-than-life persona still at play in his sleep. 

Tim felt his dick involuntarily stiffen at the thought. 

Without thinking, he tugged at himself, meaning to loosen the pressure and--Jesus Christ, when had that ever worked? The moment Tim touched himself--even through underpants and sweats--he was hard. 

There was lube in the small drawer of the bedside table. Tim had it in his hand no later than as he’d remembered it’s placement. Finding that he’s unwittingly _started,_ Tim reasoned he couldn’t very well _stop._

He fondled himself, easy and gentle at first. His eyes were centered straight ahead, fixed on Raylan. Tim began to lose himself to a story bereft of words--it’s born out of a feeling, he thought. _Desire,_ regretfully. He imagined himself and Raylan in circumstanced more favorable. 

It was simple, vague. He imagined someplace warm--a beach, maybe. That was for Raylan’s benefit, because Tim much care for sand. In the story, Raylan was talking. The subject didn’t matter, because all Tim could focus on was the warmth of his voice, the steady cadence of his drawl as it touched some words but not others, an audible series of clues to help Tim follow Raylan home. 

Tim was in the midst of getting himself off when Raylan stirred, mumbled, “Tim?”

Tim didn’t answer. His heart was pounding faintly, and all the blood in his body seemed to be concentrated in and around his dick. He hoped Raylan would--

“Tim?”

\--Say his name again. Tim bit his lip cherry red, and hesitated before answering. “Yeah?”  
Even to Tim’s own ears, he sounded goddamn guilty. 

“‘M drunk.”

Tim’s cock was warm in his hand, the tip a rosy bud he favored only sparingly. Anything more than the slightest brush from the rough pad of his thumb would send him reeling. As if the muffled sounds from his bed weren’t doing that well enough, already.

“Yeah, I know.” Tim began pumping himself slowly, methodically. He swallowed and tried to smooth over the hitch in his voice. “Y’all right? You need something?”

Tim stroked himself faster in anticipation of some drunken pick-up line, half the words forgotten, drenched in a southern drawl and made to sound more absurd than charming. Instead, Tim heard a sigh.

“I don’t have a fucking clue.”

There was movement in the bed. Tim came in panicked jolts, then squeezed himself to stave off a moan. He held his breath, and feared Raylan’s attention as much as he suddenly found himself seeking it. But the soft noises amounted to nothing, and Raylan returned to sleep. 

Tim wiped himself off, then tucked himself away, and was relieved. 

\- 

Raylan awoke early the next morning. His hair was mussed and completely flat on one side, but he smiled easily, never one to lack confidence in himself. Tim sat upright on the couch and asked plainly if Raylan needed a ride. 

Raylan waved the offer off as he pulled on his button-down, which he’d managed to wriggle out of completely at some point in the night. He left it unbuttoned over his wrinkled tank top, itself twisted to reveal a smooth plane of hip and stomach. 

“Thanks,” Raylan said. Tim had forgotten what for.

“Sure.”

Raylan had his hand on the door when Tim all but leapt from the couch. “No, it’s fine, I’ll drive you.” He heard himself answering for an argument Raylan hadn’t even made, but it didn’t matter. Tim had one hand on his car keys, the other smoothing down his own wild hair, and they were both out the door without a second thought. Tim didn’t even bother to lock his door.

“Sorry for putting you out,” Raylan said when they’d arrived at the bar. Raylan’s was the only car left in the lot. 

Tim gave a minimal shake of his head. “S’fine.” 

“You’re a lot more agreeable in the morning.” Raylan smiled hazily. “Downright compliant.”

Tim made a puckered face. “Is that a compliment?” 

“Absolutely it is. Enjoy it.”

“One more for the road. Am I clement and conciliatory?” 

That earned him an outright grin. “Now, you just get the one. Conciliatory, I hope.” Raylan winked at him. “I’ve got another favor to ask.” 

Tim drove home twenty miles over the speed limit, then jerked off again and came fast, hard, angry, and humiliated all at once. It felt phenomenal and for the first time in years, Tim fell asleep and woke late.


	4. (Season 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during the final episode of Season 4, wherein we see a shot of Raylan in a lawn chair at Arlo's place, overlooking the family gravestones. I just shoehorned Tim in there and boom, instant gratuitous fic! Hope you guys enjoy. Thanks for reading!!

It was a hell of a week. The office had been upturned by the unholy combination of Raylan's family history, Boyd Crowder's dreams of being middle-upper class Kentucky royalty, and Art's inability to not _let a sleeping Marshal Stiffy lie._

Tim liked that he was able to step out of himself for a while, invest in a cause that wasn't his own. He tamped down the nagging thought that, in doing so, he'd let down a friend. Lost a friend. 

And killing Colton Rhodes hadn't appeased his guilt nearly as much as Tim expected it would, which kind of sucked. Tim was really banking on being able to sleep at night again.

Part of Tim's solution, then, was to concern himself with other matters. Other monumental failures, rather, which brought him re soundly back to the subject of Raylan Givens. He was embarrassed for getting off like he did--staring at an unwitting Raylan, asleep in his bed. Tim swore he hadn’t come as good since--which ought to have been punishment enough--and now felt like he owed Raylan something. Not what Raylan had in mind, so much, but _something._

It was enough of a tugging guilt that Tim felt bad for not getting him anything on the afternoon coffee run--never mind that Raylan wasn’t expected in the office at all. He was only on his second day of suspension, but already looked like he’d spent a week lounging in bed. His clothes were soft and wrinkled, his long hair unwashed and dusted well over the shells of his ears. 

Tim was ready to make a crack about all Raylan’s time off, but held his tongue. Raylan’s face didn’t look rested. There were sweeping circled under his eyes, and while he filled out paperwork at his desk, he routinely moved his jaw to stifle yawns. 

Tim almost-- _almost_ \--felt compelled to offer Raylan his medium dark roast. After passing out the other coffee orders, Tim stalled at Raylan’s desk.

“You bury Arlo yet?”

It was indelicate, but Tim didn’t think Raylan would want it any other way.

Raylan neither looked up from the papers he was signing, nor answered right away. “Been kind of busy.”

Tim circled around his desk and took a seat. “Could just cremate him, save yourself the trouble.”

Raylan didn't want to say he was looking forward to putting Arlo in the earth himself, so he said nothing at all. He was unfortunate in his audience, however--because Tim spared a half-smile, hearing Raylan, anyway. 

Raylan worked through the better part of the afternoon. Looking at his watch around four, however, stirred an angry _goddamnit._ He pushed his paperwork into a haphazard pile at the corner of his desk and stood up. 

“I gotta find a flatbed truck to get the body from the prison morgue to Harlan,” he said, in equal parts to himself and to appease Tim’s curiosity. 

Tim leaned back in his chair. “I thought you already did that.”

“Like I said, I been busy.”

“That ain't a complimentary service? Moving the body?”

“It's prison. I'll be lucky if I they let me keep the bodybag.” Raylan bypassed Tim’s desk and venture towards Art’s office, but the Chief wasn’t in. It was just as well; Raylan didn’t think Art would look too favorably on lending Raylan a Marshal vehicle during his suspension. Raylan stood motionless for a moment, hands loose on his hips, head tipped back, deep in thought.

“Could use my SUV,” Tim found himself saying. “Seats fold down, there's plenty of room for a corpse.”

Raylan rolled his shoulders and stretched where he stood, which Tim could only gather by the straining of his shirt buttons. “You serious?”

Tim’s gaze flicked back towards his computer screen. His eyes glazed over an e-mail he’d started to read half a dozen times since Raylan’s impromptu arrival. “Oh, yeah. Tried and true.”

Raylan took off his hat, fought his long hair into place, and said, "You know the drive. It ain’t easy."

"Planned to be down that way, anyhow."

That it didn’t sound like an outright lie got Raylan’s attention. “Following up another lead?”

Tim worked his mouth like he was tasting something awful--a slick meal of something twice cooked, neither time very well. “Acting Sheriff Mooney couldn't decipher the signature on my statement." 

Raylan’s eyes went wide, and he perched himself on the corner of Tim’s desk. Instinctively, Tim leaned back and away. “You're kidding.”

“About him making me haul ass back to Harlan? I fucking wish. 'Course, this could just be his way of taking another crack at the shooting.” Tim shrugged. “Wasn't too pleased it was just little ole me.”

Raylan grinned wide and shook his head. His ass was planted square on a file Tim had been reading. “What a prick. He ought to be thanking you. If you hadn't killed Doyle Bennett, he'd still be kowtowing to the big man.”

“Smart thinking,” Tim drawled. “I’ll bring up an old shooting while explaining myself for the new one. What could possibly go wrong?”

"Is that a genuine question?" Raylan goaded him. He found he very much liked this--talking shit with Tim--and missed it. Any vow he might make to step back from the behavior that turned Tim away was half-hearted at best. Raylan liked having Tim as a friend, but there were things Raylan liked more than friends. _Lovers_ easily topped the list. 

Ice cream was a close second.

"You'd be the man to ask," Tim shot back, resolutely shifting his attention back to his computer screen. Raylan’s suspension might grant him the time to shoot the shit with a coworker, but in the same breath, it meant more work for the rest of the Marshals. 

Still, Raylan nodded. His record spoke for itself. "If you’re serious, we'd have to leave soon, get to the prison while there's still someone working to sign out the body."

"Give me five minutes," Tim said, but of course Raylan could not grant him even that. Raylan remained sat on the corner of Tim’s desk. “ _Move your ass,_ ” Tim clarified, “And give me five minutes.” 

\- 

When Raylan joined Tim at his SUV, Tim realized he hadn’t thought this through. “You ain’t taking your car?” The Lincoln was just on the other side of the lot, untouched. 

“There’s a truck at Arlo’s place in Harlan I should drive back,” Raylan said. “Or let it get stolen.” His hand stalled at the passenger side door. “That okay?”

Tim said nothing; he only gestured for Raylan to proceed to do whatever the hell he was going to do, anyway.

“You talk to Rachel yet?” Raylan asked, not wasting any time making Tim regret his offer.

Tim moved a plastic Barnes & Noble bag from the floor by Raylan’s seat. “No need.”

“It's a long drive,” Raylan said while immediately retrieving the bag Tim had just tossed into the back seat. He rifled through it, unimpressed. Tim had bought three comic books, an issue of _Outdoors_ magazine, a YA novel with an appropriately dystopian feel, and a bargain bin selection about alien abductions.

“How much time do you think divulging my innermost thoughts and feelings is gonna take?” Tim asked, and snatched away the bag again. 

Raylan shrugged. “Hell if I know. That’s why I asked.”

“If I get a feeling, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s all I ask,” Raylan said. Then, “I’m beat.” He adjusted his hat to hang low over his face and shield him from the sunny afternoon skies. “Wake me when we get to Big Sandy, will ya?”

Tim stopped himself from any of the jockeying responses that first jumped to mind: turn up the radio, start yammering on... And instead, Tim accepted that this was the better end of the deal. He'd be little more than Raylan's chauffeur, but at least there'd be quiet.

Big Sandy wasn't very far out of their way, but Raylan managed a short nap nonetheless. They parked and entered like they would to carry out a prisoner transport. It was only when Tim was about to flash his badge that he realized he was no longer familiar with procedure in this respect. Raylan had something more concrete than Tim's plan of appealing to a sense of shared authority: he had a release order, printed on yellow paper, crinkled from its time in his back pocket.

They were ushered to the family and visitor's area--a place Tim had never been, but supposed Raylan must have come to frequent in recent weeks. Raylan printed his name on a list and didn't seem to mind that he was being bounced around like a pinball in a game called _procedure._ Raylan's name was called, his ID checked--Tim couldn't remember Raylan ever identifying himself with anything other than his badge. The tin--that was enough. Raylan Givens, _male, 6’, brown eyes,_ was practically a stranger. 

They were told only family could proceed to collect the body, and rather than make a case for himself as a friend, Tim said he'd go sort out the car. He didn't think about whether or not Raylan would want company retrieving his dead father.

Arlo was tall. Tim knew this, but seeing the body wheeled out of a side door and across the lot towards his car was an unexpected reminder. Raylan followed the body at a distance, and did not join either of the prison orderlies at the gurney. His hat threw his face into shadow, and Tim couldn't read his expression. He guessed indifference. 

Diagonally, Arlo would only fit if they bent his legs at the knee, and Tim wasn't going to ask. With the seats folded down, they laid the body straight as a rod, which left his feet taking up space between Raylan and Tim in the front seat. A crinkled black bag was easy enough to ignore, even if each was only pretending to pacify the other. Nothing was said of the intrusive arrangement. 

The pick-up took an hour in its entirely, putting Tim and Raylan on the road by five. With traffic, Tim figured they wouldn't get to Harlan until after eight. He didn't comment on it; Raylan had warned him once already, and Tim knew the trip well enough, himself.

“What’s something you always wanted to do as a kid,” Tim started, and turned down the radio so that he would be heard. “And Arlo wouldn’t let you?” Glancing at the bagged corpse, Tim added, “A kind of, _over my dead body_ thing.”

Raylan played it cool. “Ah, you wouldn’t be into it.” 

Tim was expecting maybe they’d plan to drive donuts into the lawn at Arlo’s house. A downplayed reference to Raylan’s sexual orientation wasn’t even on Tim’s mind. It was at least a pleasant refresher for Tim, who didn’t live each day in desperate want of Raylan. It was only during these quiet moments that the inclination struck, his interest piqued, and he found himself making mistakes. “Arlo knew?”

Raylan smiled, amused by the very tone of Tim’s voice: cautious, practiced, nonchalant. He sounded every bit as though he did not care. 

“He thought the worst of me, but no. I don’t think he really knew.”

Stopped at a red light, Tim felt a surge of confidence. “You wanna do something filthy, now’s your chance.” 

There was just enough edge to his tone that Raylan didn’t waste time seeking confirmation. He took Tim’s hand off the wheel and guided it open with his own. He laced their fingers together. The grip they shared was warm and gentle and then--something else entirely. Tim thought Raylan just intended to hold it, teasing and sweet--but just as the light changed, Raylan brought two fingers from Tim’s hand into his mouth. He sucked them down, and kissed them away with an obscene little smile. 

Tim pulled back, took the wheel again without first wiping his hand off. His fingers were slick and shining. 

“Sick,” he said, his face flushed. 

“But worth it,” Raylan grinned. He gave a too-jovial pat to Arlo’s shins. “I like the way you think.”

Tim heard the telltale wrinkle of the body bag under Raylan’s hand, but kept his focus on the road. “I wasn’t thinking, is the kicker.”

“It’s an open invitation, Tim.” Raylan spoke as though somehow, Tim had forgotten his much-reiterated proposition. 

“Super,” Tim drawled. 

They stopped for fastfood around six, because finding so much as a dilapidated DQ out in the sticks was but a fanciful dream. The drive was as Tim remembered: slow and scenic. Even the addition of a dead body made little impact either way. On a long stretch of nothing but tall grass and roadside litter, they spotted a dog walking on the side of the road. Discolored and fearless, both men pegged it for a lifelong stray. It walked with a dead animal in its mouth, something old and decaying. Raylan looked sidelong at Tim like he expected him to stop. Tim did no such thing. 

Raylan made a pitiful face. "Well now I'm not sure how I feel."

Tim stopped--briefly--and only to toss his half-finished burger in the dog's path. The animal rushed to eat it as they drove away.

"Had a dog growing up," Raylan said, resting his head and drawing his hat low. "Had a couple, but there was this one... A mutt, short and bulky. Bulldog in the face, god knows what else. Had no tail, not even a stub. Just a giant, wet asshole. Huge, huge asshole. _Like a baby’s fist,_ the asshole on his dog. He ate a rolled pair of socks once, socks came out the next day--still rolled." 

“And that dog went on to become the mayor of Harlan,” Tim said, his tone pitched and solemn like the voiceover work in the Ken Burns documentaries he liked to fall asleep watching.

“You don’t like dogs?”

Tim shrugged.

“I’m only asking,” Raylan said, “Because of the cat.”

“She’s a service pet,” Tim admitted, and glanced away from the road to see that one land with Raylan. He was frowning, his lips pursed together thoughtfully.

“Like a service _dog?_ ” he asked, doubtful. 

“You’re about halfway there,” Tim deadpanned. It was a story Raylan undoubtedly wanted to hear, and Tim supposed it wouldn’t kill him to tell it. “Between getting back stateside and training at Glynco, I had to see a couple doctors. Psychiatrists,” he waved a hand, “And it was decided I’d benefit from a service animal. They wouldn’t let me take the therapy hamster, so,” Tim shrugged again. The natural end to his story being, _now there’s a cat. That’s the cat, explained._

“But you had a choice of a dog,” Raylan pressed, still not clear on Tim’s selection of pet.

“Right? I got to the four legs and a tail part. Somehow I fucked it up after that.” Tim grinned. “Plus, those dogs cost upwards of $20,000 to train. I couldn’t live with an animal whose education cost more than my own. I’m petty.”

Tim didn’t want to say that he couldn’t square with the idea of taking an expertly trained service animal from someone who truly needed it--because truthfully, that wasn’t on his mind, either. The fact of the matter was, Tim didn’t remember selecting his service animal. It was back before he’d secured the job in Lexington, when he was unemployed and had all the time in the world to drink, and used that time and then some to do exactly that. And somewhere between all that drinking, there was a dent in his car and a cat in his apartment. 

Tim liked to think he did in fact drive to the VA to pick up his cat, and not just steal the first one he came across in a nicer neighborhood.

Maybe Raylan would have liked to hear _that_ part of the story, but he’d stopped listening some time ago, back when it was first clear Tim wasn’t about to give him a straight answer. Raylan’s disinterest was something Tim couldn’t blame him for; there were very few conversation topics that could tear his attention away from the fact that his father’s dead body was laid neatly through the SUV, decomposing.

The sun was setting by the time they arrived in Harlan--and dark when they pulled up to Raylan’s childhood home.

Tim parked his car close to the house, and followed Raylan’s lead. Raylan opened the trunk and hugged the body towards him. Tim followed suit, and soon they were carrying him across the lawn and towards the side of the porch looking out over the grave markers of Raylan’s family: his Aunt Helen. His mother.

They put the body on the porch ledge. It was heavier than Tim anticipated. He’d known the grave markers were there, but never took a good look before. Now, he crouched low to read them. Raylan hadn’t bothered to update Arlo’s with the date he died. Tim saw, too, the equally unfinished marker meant for Raylan. 

“Why bury him?” Tim asked. It wasn’t quite the same question as before. Now, Tim wasn’t asking after an action--but posing _inaction_ as Arlo’s deserved response.

“It’s more for me than for him, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Raylan was only lit by the glow lingering from Tim’s SUV, as the trunk and driver’s side door were both left wide open. “I ain’t gonna do any him any favors, lettin’ him escape this place.” 

Tim nodded, like he understood that. 

“We’ll leave the body on the porch,” Raylan said, speaking the instant the idea struck him. Then he nodded to himself, agreeing. “It’ll keep.” 

Tim nodded, too--he didn’t really care, either way--and after locking up his SUV he returned to the porch and found himself reticent to leave. The night was warm and he was tired--too tired even to collect himself and enter the house, just yet. It was still early evening, but Tim had a mind for sleeping long, and sleeping well. Surveying the area, Tim thought, _I can do that, here._ The house was backed against a spread of rolling green hills, and there were no neighbors for miles. The real advantage, Tim had to admit to himself if not to Raylan, was the lawman’s company.

“I can stay, right?”

It was difficult to sleep on his own, sometimes, after he’d shot and killed a man. Tim had never had to do it before coming back stateside. In Afghanistan, his bunk was always near enough to another soldier’s, or they’d draw their sleeping bags close on some crooked mountainside. Tim could lull himself to sleep listening to the even breathing of another human being, and convince himself they were reason enough to take a life. Any number of lives.

Even just knowing Raylan was in the house, Tim thought, was welcome. 

Raylan leaned against the porch railing. It was sturdy, a fine house in every respect except for the family that once lived in it. He studied Tim, unable to picture his staying there. “You really don't have anyplace better to be?”

“I’m sorry, did I miss the Marriott drivin’ in here?” Tim disguised himself in a smile. He looked around the place--the porch, the dead body of Raylan’s father, the yard. “I keep thinking this is gonna get weirder. We got the body, and I've seen the grave marker, but your daddy didn't plan ahead and dig his own hole in the ground.”

Raylan went wide-eyed. “Shit.”

“You really didn't think this through, huh?” Tim showed his teeth, but it wasn’t much of a smile. “In the morning, after I see the Sheriff, I'll help dig.”

Raylan nodded, but he had his doubts about accepting any offers. “The man was an asshole, but this seems the kind of thing I ought to do myself.”

Tim frowned; that seemed a touch sentimental given the antics Raylan had pulled over the body. “Why?”

Raylan shrugged and looked down at the bagged bastard spending one last night on his porch. "When your daddy died, you didn't make the arrangements?"

The way Raylan said _daddy_ gave it the sound of an honorific. It must have been one of things beaten into a boy's consciousness, like _yessir, no sir,_ which Tim had known well before his time in the military. Tim doubted neither he nor Raylan gave the terms much credence, but there they were, slipping fast and loose from their tongues. To even attempt to bite them back would surely be a bloody affair, teeth slicing through flesh. 

Tim tried to ignore it, answering coolly: "I was in Basic Training. Called the funeral home, had them cremate the body. Never picked it up. Spent my time off at a couple bars, celebrating."

“Well you're the wrong person to ask, then,” Raylan quipped. “Not that I don’t admire your style.”

Tim frowned. He got the feeling Raylan thought less of him now, but not for his callous behavior. Tim wanted to know what Raylan thought he would have done at seventeen and his father died--would he run away and live out his anger anywhere he could? To Tim, that was _exactly_ what Raylan did, unprovoked. That last familial candle wasn’t snuffed out for decades to come. 

But Tim said none of that, and instead buried his resentment in a new offer: “You got another shovel or what?”

"Yeah, I do."

"See you in the AM, then," Tim said, and let himself into Raylan’s house.

Although he always kept a go-bag in his SUV, Tim didn't bother with it. In the first bathroom he came across, Tim washed his face and gargled with mouthwash he found in the cabinet over the sink. He decided to sleep in the living room, but Raylan was stood over the space and seemed hesitant to move. 

He didn't pester Tim to join him in another room. He just said, "I was gonna sleep there. There are beds upstairs."

A bed to himself was a finer deal than Tim expected. Raylan had to point him the way, then hollered up the stairs for Tim to check out the Presidential Suite. 

Tim wasn’t sure of where he was going until he got there. Raylan's old bedroom smelled stale, and its few decorative items were undisturbed since the day Raylan left. Because the space had been transformed into makeshift storage, there were a few boxes stacked on a desk, as well as a grand rocking chair stood in huge center of the room. The only thing that read as _bedroom_ was the twin-sized bed covered in a childish blue-and-green striped blanket. 

There were other things Tim noticed upon closer inspection, inklings that a boy once inhabited the room. A baseball bat and collection of well-worn gloves crowded one corner. The closet held only church clothes and a too-small, out of fashion leather jacket. The lapels alone screamed _misspent 70s._

The bedroom window was easy to slide open--no doubt, Raylan spent his childhood sneaking in and out--and Tim opened it out of necessity. Immediately, the room drew in its first fresh breath in decades. The warm night breeze carried through the space, made it liveable when before, Tim was of a mind to seek out better digs. Now, he found himself wanting to get comfortable. 

Because of a crack in the bed frame, the mattress was held up by a stack of books. Tim sat on a corner of the bed and pulled a few, careful not to dislodge the structure. He uncovered detective stories, noir, westerns, and even the odd trashy romance. Raylan favored none of the sci-if Tim grew up on, but maybe that was an inclination lost to the generation gap. 

_Or taste,_ in Tim's opinion. What Tim found next didn't help Raylan's case. Hiding among the collection was a dirty magazine, its pages wrinkled and well-loved. Its cover boasted a busty woman, her arms stretched high and tummy taunt. Still, her breasts hung heavily and rounded. Tim didn't bother flipping through it; a man's interests evolved from his high school days, if he was lucky.

Tim rested his head on a flattened pillow and stretched longways, just narrowly fitting the length of the mattress. It was likely no more comfortable than the couch, but Tim found that the window made the room, and he didn't intend to draw out his search.

While lying in bed, Tim listened to Raylan moving around on the main floor. For nearly half an hour, Raylan wandered the place. He got the generator working at some point, which was enough to bring some shuddering light to the first floor.

Just as Tim was starting to close his eyes, he heard Raylan's footsteps carry up the stairs. Every step teased a whine from the woodwork. Tim spared a moment to feel embarrassed for choosing Raylan's room to stay in, then erased the evidence from his face. Would a dead man’s bed prove any better of a choice?

But Raylan missed the mark completely at first, bypassing his own bedroom and searching for Tim in what once was his parents' room. He circled back and spied his colleague. Even in the darkened room, both men clearly saw the other. 

"Blanket," Raylan said, taking a few steps into his old room, then tossing the bundle to meet Tim the rest of the way. 

"Found your porn," Tim said for a lack of anything better coming to mind. _Thanks,_ for instance. 

"The decoy porn," Raylan corrected, then surveyed his room. "Keep looking, there's more." 

There was enough moonlight streaming through the window that Raylan could see the space easily. Everything he’d left behind, just as it was. 

His Aunt Helen must have dusted, kept the place neat. It didn’t look like twenty-odd years of utter disregard--only the last few months worth, when the house was Arlo’s and his alone.

Raylan hung in the doorway. Light from the hallway colored his back and illuminated his lanky silhouette. Tim felt a little lackluster in turn, being sat on a kids' bed clutching a blanket.

Raylan's voice was low and uneven when he next spoke, like he was figuring through a waking dream. It was sleepy and inviting. Worst of all, it came unfiltered. 

"What I wouldn't have given to have you in that bed twenty-five years ago." 

Uncommon for Raylan, his comment was neither sly nor teasing. It was imprecise, the way most truths were shared. And because it was genuine, Tim floundered. 

"Infant scenario or time traveller?" Tim asked, and immediately considered suffocating himself with the quilt Raylan had brought him. 

Raylan dropped his head, defeated. "Way to ruin it. 'Night, Tim."

"Night," Tim echoed, although he didn’t find sleep for a very long time. 

\- 

Fog stretched over the hills, which were still blue in the dark. Beyond them, Tim could see the spotting effects of fall. There were bursts of red and orange in the distance, like slow-burning fires. It was early yet, and Tim stood by Raylan’s bedroom window until the fog cleared to reveal a quiet landscape under a pale pink sky.

Tim carried his shoes downstairs, and didn’t spare more than a passing glance at Raylan, who was still sprawled out on the couch. He stepped over the body on the porch and drove into town. He arrived purposefully early to catch acting Sheriff Mooney off guard, and cleared up the issue of his signature while the man was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Tim next saw Raylan almost two hours later.

Raylan awoke late and to the smell of coffee. For a moment he believed he was home, his mother making breakfast, the house quiet because Arlo had gone on some three day bender. He sat up, confusion colored across his face until he spotted Tim at the kitchen table, stuffing himself with mini powdered donuts. The coffee Raylan smelled was in two styrofoam cups--definitely not the way mom used to make it. 

“Sheriff Mooney’s a dick,” Tim said between mouthfuls. A spray of sugar dusted the table out ahead of him.

Raylan smiled and wrenched himself up from the couch, then joined Tim at the table. “You’ll hear no arguments from me. He OK your paperwork, at least?”

Tim swallowed and wiped a large hand over his mouth, smearing away the sugar. “Yep. I have _o-fficially_ shot and killed Colton Rhodes. In self defense, I think it says.”

Raylan took a cup of coffee for himself, before Tim got powdered sugar in it. “You think?”

“I’d have noticed _homicidal rage._ ”

“I dunno,” Raylan drawled, pilfering a donut from the bag. After just one bite he, like Tim, had a generous dusting of powdered sugar on his lips and fingertips. “It’s been my experience it just sneaks up on ya.” 

Raylan noticed a plastic grocery bag on the table, bulging with fresh fruit and bottles of Gatorade.

"Oranges?" Raylan asked, surprised.

"Had to drive to fucking _Pineville_ for those. How are you all not dead of scurvy out here?"

"We're too quick to die of other things," Raylan reasoned, plucking one from the bag and digging his thumbnail into its rough skin. 

In another twenty minutes, they were outside breaking ground on a grave, the taste and sweet smell of oranges still on their tongues and fingertips.

Raylan lost his shirt before Tim did. It was cool out, especially in the early morning, but breaking into the earth was hard work. They were drenched in sweat and hardly a fourth of the way finished. They’d scarred the earth, relieved chunks of weeds and grass, the odd stone. Mostly, the soil was dense and dark, almost black. It smelled good, sweet. Tim wouldn’t have minded getting his hands in it, but they weren’t exactly planting daisies, here. 

Their work became more paced after that initial feasting on the ground. The hole began to take shape as it developed from a sorry ditch to a shallow grave. Tim decided not to ask how deep Raylan wanted to go, but instead merely follow the man’s lead. Raylan worked steadily, seemingly with neither passion nor fatigue. He never hit a slump or chased a high. He just dug.

Tim had a baseball cap--Raylan didn’t know where he found it--and wore it backwards to keep his hair from his face and the sun off his neck. He yanked it off at one point, and underneath his hair had become damp and slightly curled. It was then that he joined Raylan and removed his shirt, blotted his sweaty face with it. He was pale and clean where Raylan was ever-tan and now, a good four feet deep, perpetually dirty. Dirt mixed with sweat and streaked his forearms and smudged across his belly like an oil stain. 

Tim’s hands were blackened, but that was as far as it yet went. 

“You wanna pick up the pace?” Tim asked when he caught Raylan staring at him.

“Hey, maybe I'm in mourning,” Raylan teased, then stopped completely. He wiped a hand over his mouth. “I hated him for so long. And I still hate him. I hate his fucking corpse.” Raylan pitched his shovel into the soft earth and leaned against it. “You got a dead dad. You still hate him?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tim hurled another shovelful over his shoulder, and it sailed high out of the grave. “You learn to enjoy it.”

Raylan climbed out of the hole and retrieved some beers, and another two oranges. Rather than sit on the porch, they found themselves remaining in the half-formed grave. There was room for both to sit opposite one another, their bare backs pressed into cool, fine-smelling earth. They didn’t talk so much as silently observed and considered their handiwork. Tim made a mental note to even out one of his sides, sharpen a corner. Raylan’s only thought was to dig deeper, so that he’d have something he could _really_ hurl his father into. The drinking drove a wedge through their time management, but was worth it.

Finally, as the grave was readying completion, Raylan couldn’t help himself anymore. He had to start talking, or risk seeing a thing through without once getting on Tim’s nerves.

“You’re a natural at this,” he said, and hurled another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tim answered easily, “I never had much luck with hamsters.”

Raylan smiled wide at him, his teeth a flash of white against blackest soil.

“You feel like you’re back in the mines?” Tim asked to the same wall of dirt he’d watched grow taller and taller all morning.

“Hardly,” Raylan snorted, and pointed to the visible sky above their heads. Then he considered the soil they’d crossed into. “Earth smelled different down there. Unnatural. Like a furnace.” 

“You’re saying, then, that your calling was grave digging all along?”

“I got it half-right,” Raylan agreed, a wry smile at play across his features. “I drop enough assholes to fill a cemetery.”

“We should go into business together. Givens & Gutterson: Moratorium on Assholes Incorporated. You shoot, I shovel.”

Raylan liked that idea just fine. “You don’t want the honors?”

“Digging ain’t bad. Quiet work.” He looked pointedly at Raylan, who responded by tossing his shovel out of the hole and climbed up after it. With a bright blue sky at his back, he observed their progress.

“And you look good doing it,” Raylan said, and held out a hand to Tim. “This is good.”

They retrieved the body from the porch, with Raylan at the head and Tim, the feet. Together, they carried Arlo into the yard, and around the side of the house. They positioned themselves over the grave. When they released him, Arlo’s body hit the earth with an unmistakable sound. Inside that shapeless black bag was very much a man. 

Raylan and Tim were quiet for a moment. Raylan never once took his eyes off the bag, which was a snug fit in the hole. It didn’t seem enough, somehow. Raylan almost wanted to retrieve the body and dig deeper still, send Arlo directly into the pits of hell.

“Is this the part you wanna do by yourself?” Tim asked quietly, gesturing loosely to the pile of loose dirt meant to fill up the grave. 

Raylan sighed. It would have to do. He took up a shovel and handed Tim the other. “If I were a younger man, maybe.”

\- 

They filled the hole. That’s how Tim prefered to think of it.

Afterwards, Raylan brought out the entire cooler of beers and they drink together in lawn chairs. Tim had slipped back into his soiled t-shirt, but Raylan hadn’t bothered with his own. 

“You wanna stick around?” Raylan asked. It wasn’t a lurid invitation, necessarily; it was only Raylan, seeking some company for what he believed to be a long stretch of isolated suspension.

Tim shook his head, and almost felt bad for denying Raylan this. “Got another one of these to attend. Hope the catering is better.”

Raylan didn’t quite believe him, so he took a long swig of beer before asking, “At the risk of sounding like an asshole--who died?”

A tight smile thinned Tim’s lips, then disappeared. “My friend Mark. Colton Rhodes shot him three days ago.”

Raylan didn’t ask any further questions. He pieced together what he could, what was always there but so innocuous at the time: Tim’s early offer to help him out in Harlan because he had business there, himself. Tim getting to the tent church and finding Ellen May before any of them, and putting down Colt in the process.

“Your roommate Mark?” Raylan shifted in the lawn chair, and tried to achieve decorum as best he could. 

With a shrug, Tim answered around the question: _yes,_ that friend Mark, but no, they weren’t roommates anymore. “He moved out a while ago. Found work in Louisville. Was pissed at me for always being on his case.”

Tim sat there with a small smile on his face, and Raylan figured he was thinking all the things he’d never say, so he did not interrupt. Even without saying so, Raylan supposed this was Tim reaching out in a moment of desperation and loss. Raylan dropped a filthy hand onto Tim’s sun-warmed forearm. The touch was nothing like the handholding from earlier; Raylan intended nothing further than to provide Tim with the presence of another human being when one had already been taken from him. 

Tim stopped smiling, stared at nothing, threw back the rest of his beer and shifted in his seat. As Raylan’s hand left his arm, Tim’s mouth found Raylan’s. Tim didn’t have to search for or tease open anything; Raylan met him with equal enthusiasm and support for the cause. They kissed, open-mouthed and senseless, until Raylan brought a hand to Tim’s cheek. Tim pulled back immediately, but only so far that their breath was still on the other’s lips.

“Oh,” Tim said, and before Raylan even registered the sound he felt the hitch in Tim’s air, like his lungs had reclaimed what Tim might have otherwise spent in Raylan. _”Shit.”_

He leapt out of his chair and stood before Raylan, expression crumpled in defeat and drawn in disgust. He stared hard at his empty seat, as if he was seeing the scene unfold again and hoped to find Raylan at fault in it. But--no. This was all him.

“I could continue,” Raylan said coolly. The tenting in his jeans took a little something away from his delivery, but not much.

Tim absently wet his lips, cannibalizing the moment in a way he wished he could take back. “No. That was stupid.” 

Raylan knew it was a losing battle. If they were ever going to fuck, it wouldn't be in lawn chairs. 

“Tim,” he started, trying for confident calm, “If it was just coming from my end, this’d be getting to feel tired.”

_“Getting to?”_

Raylan dropped his hands to his hips and lowered his head, exasperated. When he looked at Tim again, he saw the kind of restless nerves a man ought to have while handling a dead body, maybe--not warding off a crush. 

He stared for a moment, trying to figure Tim out through this singular window into his psyche. Tim’s final business with his own father told of an early ruthlessness and disregard for authority. His unease with Raylan was evidence of lessons learned. His silence towards everyone else--Raylan didn’t want to call it fear. Fear wasn’t something he associated with his colleague in any respect. 

Which only left stupidity or, if Raylan was feeling generous, immaturity. 

“What are you doing here,” Raylan finally asked. He sounded frustrated and annoyed and wanted Tim to know that.

“Leaving,” Tim said, and started back towards the house before remembering he hadn’t left anything in there--except Gatorade and oranges, and _fuck that,_ Raylan could have them.

Raylan was out of his chair and intercepting Tim before the younger Marshal could reach his vehicle.

“Forget it,” Raylan said, surprised that Tim would react this way. Raylan was surprised, too, that he would care to appease Tim’s behavior. “It didn’t happen.”

“Yeah?” God bless him, the boy sounded _hopeful._

“Forgotten,” Raylan promised, and Tim looked relieved. Then, the realization dawned on him and Raylan couldn’t so much as think before blurting out in sheer disbelief: “Are you trying to stop?” 

Rather than wide-eyed and in awe of Raylan’s sleuthing, Tim’s eyes near about rolled out of his head. “What am I, _twelve?_ ” He slumped against the back of his car as if Raylan’s stupidity was enough to blow him over. He must have looked more miserable than irate, however, because Raylan continued his sympathetic streak.

Raylan thought about the three hour drive Tim would have back to Lexington, and couldn’t help wanting to blot the lonely trip from Tim’s future. “Sure you don’t wanna stay?” 

He regretted asking, though. The offer didn’t carry its usual perverse sense of fun--not that it had ever successfully appealed to Tim before. It sounded kind of sorry, in fact, and when Tim glanced towards the freshly filled grave, Raylan knew he’d given the wrong impression. 

“Do I need to?” Even the way he asked was uneasy, the offer wrenched out of him and not freely made. 

Raylan shook his head, feeling foolish. “Naw. ‘Course not.” 

“Alright. Because I really do gotta bury a friend. I try not to use that excuse too often. It ain’t like a grandmother.” Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then, when enough time had passed that he was no longer departing due to the _incident,_ Tim collected his empties and folded up his chair.

Raylan watched him with a newfound interest. “Are we friends?” he asked, and to counter the expectation of another stupid question, added: “Outside of you not trusting me and resenting that I fuck all kinds, of course."

“Outside of all that? Sure.” Tim tossed his three empty bottles one at a time into the garbage.

“Good to know I still have some.”

“Some? Plural?” Tim looked around the yard and spread his dirt-stained arms wide. Each of his fingernails boasted a black halfmoon of dirt. It was enough to make any mother recoil, but naturally neither Tim nor Raylan thought anything of it. “Was there someone else here, digging?”

Raylan smiled wryly. “Boyd came through for me on something, is all."

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I wanna ask?” He went to his SUV, got in, and didn’t mind so much that Raylan continued to talk to him through the rolled-down window. Their banter was carried out on some new plane where each party was indifferent to what has just occurred, and avowed to its continued ignorance.

“Wouldn’t get an answer if you did.”

“Shit. You bury any other bodies I don’t know about?”

“Not bury, as such.”

Tim started his car. “For future reference, this is why I don’t trust you.”

“You should,” Raylan started to say, “Trust me. Or trust yourself, at least.”

“I can’t do both,” Tim said, then pulled off the borrowed baseball cap and handed it off to Raylan. “Sorry about your dad. I guess.”

Raylan accepted both the hat and the belated eulogy and took a few steps back, giving Tim the space to drive off his property and out towards the hills.


	5. (Season 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because there was tragically so little Tim in Season 5, this story takes place around the end, the season finale, and after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang, it's been a while! A huge thanks to everyone's encouragement and kind comments--here and on Tumblr. I very sincerely appreciate it. :) 
> 
> I plan to finish this story finished before I head back to "Don't Look So Damn Tragic," largely because I know how this one ends but the plot for DLSDT is tripping me up. All that I have written at the moment could fit on a grocery list. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this one--it's almost over!!

A woman answered the door in just her underwear and a dress she was still buttoning at the front. Tim pitched his eyes upward, over her head. 

“Raylan in?” he asked. 

The woman smiled big and wide, and abandoned her open dress in favor of reaching out a hand for Tim to shake. “Deputy Tom, hi! Raylan said you’d be by early. Come on in.”

“Tim,” Tim corrected.

“Jim?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Tim drawled. “Jim.”

Tim wasn’t about to be made flustered by a flash of mismatched bra and panties, so he followed the woman where she led him through the house. Tim had toured the place earlier when he was tasked to clear it of weapons. He figured Raylan had chosen the upstairs master bedroom for his own, but that didn’t mean he’d slept with this woman, there. Tim half expected to see him stumble out of the hunting room, where the heads of fantastic and endangered beasts hung grisly and petrified.

Instead, Raylan came from upstairs and slowly descended the staircase. And where the woman hadn’t startled Tim in her state of undress, Raylan about did the trick. He was barefoot--that was the first Tim had ever seen of his feet, and they were just as long and exquisite as his leather boots. He was also shirtless, and the only stitch of clothing he had deigned to wear--his jeans--were open and hanging low on his hips. He wore a grin, of course.

Tim crossed his arms. “Art said you inexplicably took a file. The Peterson-Kiowski thing?”

Ever the skeptic, Raylan looked at his watch. “When’d he say that?” Still, when he reached the foot of the stairs he continued on, and Tim felt inclined to follow.

“Last night ‘round eight when I was still looking for it.”

Tim caught sight of the woman again; she was fretting with and pulling her hair into a messy bun, now, her dress forgotten. Tim then spied the file on the kitchen counter. Its pages were old and curled, signifying both its age and the reason it hadn’t been digitally archived. It was an old, cold case. More than anything it was background for a current matter involving Peterson’s son, Kiowski’s daughter, and one hell of a love story between the two, complete with swindled robotics labs, Soviet-era weaponry, and a little lakeside property out in Western Kentucky. 

“Great,” Tim said, and reached for the file. Raylan, being closer, slid it away. He flipped through the first few pages.

“You know,” Raylan said, his tone clipped as though we was suddenly affronted by Tim’s presence so early this morning, “I’m gonna be at work.”

“Are you?” Tim droned, “Going to grace us with your presence? A _stounding._ ”

Raylan squinted at him, still tired, his thinking sleep-logged and slow. "Where did I get the impression you were a morning person?"

"Raylan," Tim sighed. He wasn't about to make a mad grab for the file; no. Raylan would show him enough respect to simply hand it over, and Tim could wait him out until that conclusion was met. “Why do you even have this?” Tim asked.

Raylan shrugged. Sometimes he just took shit, but that wasn’t the answer Tim ought to hear. “Little light reading.”

“Yeah I’m sure you had nothing better to do.” Tim pitched his voice low--they could both hear the woman--Allison, Raylan had hollered after her about wanting any coffee--flitter about the mansion in search of her purse and briefcase.

Raylan smiled, pleased and certainly not of Tim's opinion that any jealousy he _might_ have heard was grossly over-imagined. He leaned against a spread of marble countertop. Behind him, an enormous, shiny cappuccino machine sat like a piece of expertly rendered art. 

“Stay for breakfast,” he said. Even such a simple, seemingly harmless offer sounded downright perverse when Raylan said it. He still hadn’t bothered to button his jeans, Tim noted. Then again, it wasn’t a complete look; he wasn’t wearing anything under them. Just a spread of hair Tim imagined was dense and dark, naturally sparse and in no need of constant care. Raylan’d get a crick in his neck if he had to trim before sleeping with somebody. 

Tim schooled his exasperated expression; it was too early in the day for this. “Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

"How about we bowl a few frames?" The Monroe mansion had a beautiful, black cherry two lane set-up in the basement, complete with an automated pinsetter, ball return feature, and adjacent gaudy jukebox. After he saw the look on Tim's face, Raylan felt compelled to add: "That ain't a euphemism. Least, not one I'm familiar with." 

Tim could only have been less amused with the display if he was Helen Keller.

Raylan, defeated, finally handed over the file. Tim tucked it under his right arm. His attention flicked to Raylan once more. “I can tell Art you’ll be in?”

“I may be late," Raylan admitted. There was at least _one_ person in the sprawling mansion who wanted a piece of him. "You can tell him--"

" _You_ can tell him," Tim snapped, then stalked out of the kitchen and let himself out. 

Allison must have passed him in the hall, because the expression she wore when she met Raylan in the kitchen was bemused. 

“It’s seven in the morning. How did you manage to ruin that boy’s day already?”

“I think he had a head start,” Raylan said. He caught Allison gently by the arm and drew her in for a kiss. “He didn’t wake up to you.” 

\- 

Allison didn’t see Tim again until she passed him in the hall just beyond the Chief Deputy’s recovery room. Having heard he was awake and receiving visitors, she made a point of arriving early in the morning, hoping to dodge any run-ins with Raylan. 

All her planning didn’t matter a lick; it seemed the entire court house had turned out to see the Chief, and Allison found herself in for something of a wait. 

“I just wanted to thank him again,” she said when she caught Tim staring at her. He looked dead tired and sported a nasty cut and bruised features, but didn’t seem to mind them, so Allison didn’t ask. “I… want to know he hears me.” 

Tim led her to the front of the line. 

Raylan was posted outside the door as Allison was leaving, but they seemed to have ended things well enough that he didn’t pursue her. Tim found himself wanting to know her secret. 

“You made out pretty well for being T-boned,” Raylan said. His hat was pulled down low, but his keen eyes were searching. 

“You should see the rest of me,” Tim drawled. He ached and was bruised in placed he didn’t know he had. 

Seemingly not caring that their colleagues and other courthouse professionals were within earshot, Raylan said: “You know I’ve asked.”

Tim reared back and took a swing, clipping Raylan on the mouth. 

In the seconds he had before Raylan hit the wall, then the ground, and other Deputies swarmed them to break up any further fighting, Tim regretted what he’d done. He felt tremendous shame for letting Raylan continue after him, for getting a rise when Tim _knew better_ than to draw attention to himself in that way. Least of all, it seemed, he was sorry to have disturbed Art’s peace. 

“You deserve worse,” Tim shouted at him. He felt Nelson’s arm across his chest, guiding him away from Raylan. “For Art.”

Tim hated that it was almost an afterthought.

There was a flash of red across Raylan’s teeth when he called after Tim: “Don’t I fucking know it!” 

The lament sang like laughter, bitter and cold but still clinging to the absurd. 

They didn't see much of each other after that. In the field, Rachel separated them like children and anywhere else, Tim took care not to cross Raylan's path. Raylan had bigger concerns: The effort to take down Boyd got drawn out because Rachel had to be mindful of her first test as Chief Deputy. Subsequently, Vasquez got the thing tied up in legal as he aimed to draw conclusions about every shitkicker in the state, for so many had dealings with Boyd. Raylan only stayed around because he still believed this matter would end with him and Boyd, pistols drawn. The law would come down after. 

In the meantime, he fell back into Allison’s good graces, which made enough sense. Raylan didn’t have a whole lot of friends at his disposal, and he’d already twice run through the women in his life. It only seemed right that Allison get a sequel. 

Turned out though, _she_ called _him,_ reached out concerning her guilt about Art. She asked Raylan to come by--“maybe?”--and despite knowing better, Raylan went. They could be loosely categorized as friends, but Allison was inclined to fool around and Raylan wasn’t a good enough friend to put the kibbutz on the arrangement. He liked being a flirt too much, and Allison admittedly liked it, too.

They made a date Friday night at the Lexington planetarium to see a laser light show. It was understood that Allison intended to get them both good and baked-- _“for old times’ sake,”_ although Raylan didn’t believe she was old enough to get nostalgic over Pink Floyd. Still, Raylan was game. 

It was a warm night--teetering on balmy--when they arrived at the planetarium. They waited off to one side, their shoes disappearing into uncut grass. Presently, the entrance was hindered by a deluge of sleepy children, teenagers, and the odd adult. The latter stuck out like redwoods in a forest of saplings. Those tethered to children looked irate and kept checking the time on their smartphones. Tim emerged as one of those adults, but his expression was easy, even happy. Both of his hands were unencumbered, resting slack in his jacket pockets. He noticed his colleague and his date immediately, but almost did not stop. 

Allison looked expectantly at Raylan. She had witnessed the fight. It wasn’t so long ago that Raylan still had the bruise to show for it. 

Tim extracted himself from the mass of children, and joined Raylan and Allison just beyond thanetariums double doors. 

"Special showing of the Lord of the Rings trilogy," he started to say, "Is why I'm here." 

He looked between them both, but favored Allison. She didn't know how things were between the two Marshals, but reasoned continued unease was par for the course after any public throwdown. Raylan never talked about Tim anymore, which was something she distinctly remembered from when they were actually dating--Raylan always had some funny story with a gory end, and Tim seemed to feature prominently. 

Tim glanced at the other poster advertisements adorning the exterior of the building. "You going to the laser light show?" he guessed, doubtful. "I heard the plot is hard to follow."

"Characters are two dimensional," Raylan agreed, and while his voice was light it was anything but jovial. 

"We intend to enhance our viewing experience," Allison told Tim with a sly smile. Tim raised an eyebrow at Raylan--not surprised, as such, but curious. For all Raylan’s reefer connections, Tim never got the impression he smoked. Raylan shrugged. 

“Care to join us?” Raylan asked, and received a quick look from Allison, confirming for Tim that this was an unexpected offer. 

But Allison’s face broke into a broad smile, too toothy not to be genuine, and she added eagerly: “We insist!”

It was a stronger effort than Raylan had made, but Tim dismissed them both. “Naw,” he said. “I’ll only cramp your style. I’m a total narc.”

Allison sized him up with one glance, then said, “Uh-huh. With those sorry, bloodshot eyes? Sure.”

“Hey,” Tim squinted at her. “Have you _seen_ Return of the King? Three of the six endings are real sad.” 

"Come on, Tim,” Raylan said while wrapping an arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Don’t make us beg.”

Tim saw the gesture for what it was: a signal for Tim to clear out, that Raylan wasn’t interested in babysitting him. Perhaps he was still angry over their altercation at the hospital. Or maybe, he finally saw Tim for the lost cause that he was. 

The reason was no matter; Tim bared his teeth in a grin and said: “Alright, you’ve twisted my leg. ‘Less of course, this is this a pity invitation? ‘Cause there's no need. I just spent the best eleven hours of my life. It was life-changing.” 

Allison hooked her free arm into one of Tim’s, leading both him and Raylan away from the planetarium’s doors. “Allow us to try and top it, then,” she said. Her tone was cheeky, confident, and suddenly Tim knew he was in for more than just an opportunity to ruin Raylan’s night. 

They circled around the building and found an undeveloped park area. Besides a few benches and a half-constructed sidewalk and renovated fountain, it was all trees and tall grass. 

“Cute,” Tim observed dully as Allison produced a miniature, travel-ready vaporizer. It was stylized pink and chrome, and resembled a feminine product to the untrained eye--that is, to most men. She readied it with expert hands, then took a hit.

“Did you bring enough for the whole class?” Raylan said, smirking. He always liked how unashamed she was about it all--the wild sex, the questionable legal maneuvering, her wants and needs. It’s what gets her into trouble, but makes the getting-there fun. 

She swatted Raylan’s arm, but dug into her purse again all the same. “You two mind kicking it old and dirty?” To prove her point, she produced a finely wrapped joint and an ugly convenience store lighter. It had a picture of a monster truck on it, half scratched off. 

“Old and dirty is my specialty,” Tim remarked as he accepted the token. 

“You smoke much?” Allison asked, kissing away the vaporizer. 

It took Tim a moment to realize she was talking to him. Then he felt stupid for thinking she and Raylan never had this conversation before. “In highschool, I don’t know about much.” Tim turned the thing around between his fingers. “Preferred the simple elegance of getting shitfaced drunk, myself.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Raylan said. He decided to at least make an effort to enjoy Tim’s company, however unexpected and unwanted. 

They stopped in their walking when they came upon a bench sat under the cover of a drooping tree. The area was dark, largely shielded from the walkway and backed against a larger expanse of trees--undeveloped green space, likely a future mall parking lot. 

“I feel like this is where teenagers go to die,” Tim said, and didn’t break his stride as he lit up and took the ceremonial first hit. 

“You wanna find a few?” Raylan asked, accepting the joint when it came to him. “Rough ‘em up?”

“Don’t,” Allison said, hand over her heart and her tone taking on a faux sincerity. “I’ve got to protect my people.” 

“Dilapidated park equipment, shady overgrowth,” Raylan waved a hand, “This was your scene?”

“Back in the day,” Allison reminisced with a fond smile. She and Raylan took a rest on the bench. “Admittedly, I’ve not changed much.”

“Raylan neither,” Tim said, and was the last to join them. He sat on one far end of the bench, Raylan to the other, and Allison between them. She sat perched on the rounded back, a position which gave Raylan access to her bare legs. He curled a hand around one, bent and kissed the flesh of her thigh. His ring was cold and she shivered, then laughed. 

Raylan couldn’t argue with Tim’s assessment. “Running with the same unsavory types,” he said. “Nope, nothing’s changed.”

“What’s the Harlan County equivalent of makeout point?” Tim asked, idyllic teen murder locales still weighing heavy in his mind. “Suckface haybale?”

“All-the-way outhouse?” Allison tried.

“I hear the fumes coming from the in-house meth labs take on a purplish hue," Tim said, lobbing Raylan an sly look. "That’s mighty romantic.” 

Raylan liked how Tim said the word, like he genuinely wasn't aware of the actual spelling. _Ro-manic._

Still, Raylan dismissed their suggestions and gave his own truth: “Anywhere people couldn’t see. A truck bed backed up to nothin’. Old boarded up mine shaft… when you get past the whole mess of nothing, Harlan’s a small place. People crowdin’ in on each other’s business.” 

Tim could almost see it: Raylan retreating into a grimace cut into the earth, a screaming mouth with crooked teeth. He’d lead someone by the hand into a place so unnatural that even the most crude and inexperienced kissing and groping would feel downright intrinsic by comparison. 

Raylan took another hit and spoke again, his words carrying into a long-awaited conversation with Tim. “I did more of that than I care to admit." 

“Sneaking around?” Allison asked, smiling. The idea thrilled her, but beyond her Tim sat, looking pensive. 

“Had to,” Raylan said, speaking aloud but only to Tim, now. “Felt imperative. First loves, and all.”

He passed the joint to Tim, who was slow to reach for it. 

Although Raylan had never explicitly spoken Boyd Crowder’s name in this context, he’d once indicated they were intimate. It was only now that Tim realized that perhaps their relationship was more than a few fast tugs outside a coal mine. Tim wondered if, instead, it started in their youth, carried through their tumultuous adolescent years and well into their teens. As boys and as men, Raylan and Boyd shared something unique. Tim’s breathing seemed to slow as a second realization dawned: it was nothing Boyd ever held over Raylan’s head, like every other goddamn thing--Raylan’s roots in Harlan, their family history, their shared near-death experience in the mines. Boyd would sooner point to the fact that they stood under the same sun before he mentioned sharing a bed, sharing their bodies. Whatever they’d had was genuine, and not to be trifled with, or twisted into a threat by either party. 

And Tim didn’t quite know what to make of that.

He couldn’t reason that Raylan made wiser choices of partners than Tim had first believed, given how quick Raylan was to guess his preference--and strike. And Boyd Crowder would forever be an outlier, never in the control group. Because he couldn’t figure the trend, Tim got frustrated. Of course Raylan singled him out: young, ex-military, new to the job--Tim was ideal. he’d keep quiet so as not to jeopardize his own standing. Tim supposed he could make a similarly generous argument for Crowder: living where he did, under his daddy’s roof… Seeing the two together was evidence that Raylan practiced this long-game with others--waiting on them, wanting them, courting their favor. 

Tim discovered he hadn’t paced himself well with the joint of Allison’s, which he supposed accounted for his turn towards the grossly paranoid. He passed it back and rubbed his eyes. 

Allison pocketed her vaporizer and from the dwindling joint, took in a long, slow drag and held it in. When she finally exhaled and spoke, her words came clouded in warm smoke. "Hey. I just had a thought. Am I the only person here who hasn't killed anybody?"

Raylan smiled--taking the sentiment as the joke it was intended to be--but Tim answered honestly, "It's really only you who can answer for that." 

"I haven't known her long enough to kill with her," Raylan agreed, his tone light in an effort to sway Tim back towards the shared good mood. 

Tim would not be inched in that direction--let alone swayed. Instead, he planted his feet firmly in darker territory and said, "I killed two guys the day I met you."

"Did you, now?" Raylan kept his tone light, uninteresting, but felt a sickness churning in his gut. He thought at first it was the pot not agreeing with him, but better knew the feeling as something more familiar: unease. He'd been feeling it a lot around Tim, lately. Even before the fight at the hospital, Raylan had noticed Tim's bursting aggression. Usually directed at Raylan, and _usually,_ save for the odd haymaker, relayed in curt commentary or a biting putdown.

Tim didn't answer immediately. He seemed to be giving Raylan time to concern himself with the statement, and a truth he didn't recognize. It was pretty easy for Raylan to get caught up in his own shooting that night--of a friend and former lover.

"Those shitkickers Boyd sent to tail you,” Tim said. “Big guys. Spherical. Art had me wing 'me both. Course, they fled. We went after you, left those couple of Einsteins for the locals to corral." Tim wet his lips. "Instead of going to a hospital, they did some DIY medical care. Tried to cauterize the wounds with a hot spit, ended up severing an artery each. Bled out." 

"I didn't know that."

"I didn't mind it," Tim said, then smiled. "Hey. Then I shot and killed somebody else, near about three days later. At your signal." Tim battled to keep his grin from reaching any further across his face. Already, he looked manic. "Doyle was another."

"Well shit, Tim. If we're gonna make lists..." 

Tim cut him off: "I've never needed your help in that respect."

Taken aback, Raylan ultimately unceded, "That's right. You handle your own." 

Raylan had no need to make a dig at Tim's shooting of Colton Rhodes, but it was the lowest hanging fruit and pot made Raylan lazy.

"That's right," Tim agreed. Pot, like everything from alcohol to food with a high sodium content, made Tim more combative. But he was grinning, _reveling_ in it. 

Allison, uninterested in the pissing match, said, "A simple _yes_ would have sufficed.”

Raylan found her leg again, teased her skin with an exploratory hand. "Yes, Allison, you are a bright light in the dark. A pristine being among those of us who churn through the muck of humanity. Now, pass me that joint you lifted off one of your case work kids, huh?" 

"I didn't steal from him," Allison huffed, indignant. "He sold to me. But his shit was little more than ragweed. _Forgot I smoked it after smoking it_ kind of shit. This, _this_ comes from professionals." 

Tim gave Raylan a smart look, their earlier animosity suddenly smoothed over. "Wanna bet it's from Loretta McCready enterprises?" 

"You know, I had a look at her business plan... Lexington expansion isn't slotted until next year. She's gonna sure up her rural markets, first."

"Smart girl. Gotta build her brand." 

They returned to the planetarium feeling relaxed, the edges of their realities blurred. Allison told them she’d lost the taste for anything stronger, but for two men who hadn’t smoked since bellbottoms were in style--and then making an unfortunate comeback--it was nothing short of a trip. Raylan frowned at every new smell and Tim looked ridiculous trying to keep the smile off his face. 

They sat in reclining seats and stared at the domed ceiling. The cycling images of space and stars began to speed up, then disappeared into a blur of light and neon color as the show started. A blaze of light and sound fell over the audience in great, sweeping visual streams. Even when Raylan closed his eyes, the color was still there, hugging the backs of his eyelids.

As adults acting like teenagers, the three found they had a lot of company. Raylan couldn't hear what was said, but throughout the opening number Tim kept whispering to Allison and getting her to break out into snorting, guffawing laughter. Even after they quieted down, they didn’t make it longer than half an hour, which Raylan thought was pushing things for a laser light show, as is. 

"If we want more I've got to track down my guy," Allison whispered as they stood up and filed out of the theater. 

"Sounds like poor customer service," Tim said. He was still intently watching the light show until it disappeared from view. 

"Friday nights, he's off the clock," Allison said. She stopped just outside the planetariums' double doors, and stood before her lover and his colleague. "But I know where to find him."

Neither man objected, and the offer became a strange kind of pact. Irresponsible and foolhardy as it was to test their luck, to _not_ do so seemed a waste. At least, such was the height of their collective thinking. They piled into Raylan's town car and set about following Allison's direction. 

"He got anything else?" Tim asked, surprising both Allison and Raylan. Raylan kept his eyes on the road--it was certainly a chore--but Allison took the opportunity to turn right around in her seat and study Tim. 

"I should be dating _you,_ " Allison said with a wink. 

"Tim's ex-military," Raylan offered. "You sure you haven't?" 

"That still a sore spot for you, huh?" Allison grinned wide.

"Little bit," Raylan allowed as his gaze drifted to Tim in the rearview mirror. To his surprise, Tim wasn’t staring back. Usually he was quick to meet every punch--or visual cue, as circumstance would have it. His focus, usually so unwavering, was now scattered. Tim stared out the window. He stared at the back of Allison’s head. He stared at Raylan’s hand on the stick shift. 

Tim, seemingly unaffected before, was feeling answerable to the chemical, now. He rubbed his eyes again, first with his entire fists, then open-palmed. He drew his hands back through his own hair, carrying away whatever unnatural visions plagued him. 

Then he sighed, quiet and content. 

Raylan missed the turn off and had to double back. Allison inspected her billfold, and accepted the few bills Tim passed forward. She waved, cash in hand, for Raylan to stop.

"This the place?" Raylan asked, skeptical. It was a gay bar by word of mouth, which Raylan knew because Tim once mentioned it off-hand and in defense of his having a social life. Raylan figured it for a lie, and just assumed Tim didn’t want to drive out to Harlan just to stir up shit and rattle a few cages. For some reason. 

At any rate, the neon signs didn't read as subtle. Raylan thought Allison would have more sense than this, but then--Raylan was the federal officer partaking of her illegal favor, and driving around downtown Lexington in search of more. 

"Yep,” Allison said while refreshing her lipstick in the rearview mirror. There was little cause to do so, but she liked putting on her best face when meeting her dealer. 

"I'll back you up," Tim said, his voice a solid presence from the back seat. 

"A true gentleman!" Allison exclaimed, then took Tim’s arm as they exited the car, although he had not offered it. 

Feeling like a father dropping off some unruly kids on their first date, Raylan hollered after them: “Hands where I can see ‘em!”

Of course, it would be Allison he had to worry about. She grabbed Tim’s ass, making him jump and lag behind. Tim flipped Raylan off before disappearing into the building after Allison. 

They weren’t gone long enough for Raylan to do anything but pull the car around, attempt then abort a weak parking job. By the time he occupied a space, only Allison--honeyed curls bouncing over her shoulders--had returned from the bar.

"You lose your tail?" Raylan asked, eyeballing the building front for Tim. 

Allison's face was red with glee, and Raylan had to wonder if she'd already taken what the dealer had sold her. "Tim decided to stay," she announced while dropping into the passenger side. 

Raylan huffed a disbelieving laugh. "Was I laying the third wheel bullshit on that thick?" 

Allison's pretty face fell into something uncertain. "You're kidding, right?" 

Raylan's brow furrowed. "Aren’t you?"

"That boy is gay as Christmas," she crowed. "Don't tell me you had no idea!" 

"He's always doing weird shit,” Raylan rebuffed, not denying his knowledge, but wanting to cover for Tim, nonetheless. Allison worked among a lot of government offices, and Raylan had his doubts that Tim turned to her in the club and ominously asked that she _forget what she saw here today._ Looking at the place he was parked outside, Raylan thought Tim wasn't doing himself any favors, anyway, never mind what transpired inside. "Give it another two minutes, he'll be searching the lot for this car."

Allison frowned. Why Raylan couldn't just accept what she'd told him might have aggravated her under most circumstances, but her attitude was buoyed by her fine haul. She made her point again, now with as much detail as the exchange warranted: "He ran into a friend, told me to tell you to make sure I had a good evening." 

Raylan started to get out of his car. "Well now I know you're shitting me. Tim does not have friends." 

“Looked pretty friendly to me,” Allison sing-songed after him. 

After a narrow flight of stairs down into a basement, the club was dark, then bright. Oscillating lights reminded Raylan of the planetarium, except the space was warm and the air tasted sticky and lived in. Everyone had had a taste. Despite the erratic lighting, the music was drawn and dreamy, even slow. Most were coupled, draped over one another in a strange, public display of intimacy. The crowd was fairly young, but Raylan didn’t count himself among the old and discarded just yet. He felt plenty of eyes on him--just not the two he was looking for. 

Raylan knew exactly what propelled him forward, past the skinny-armed bouncer and deeper into the club. He just didn't like to think of himself as that petty. The point--driven like a nail into his head--was simply this: Raylan could not let Tim get away with doing something he wouldn’t do with Raylan. At least, not without acknowledging he’d done it. 

Although he moved through the slim crowd of revelers with intent, Raylan wasn't clear on what he'd do. He just wanted to _see._

He wanted to know for himself, to witness the reality of what Tim's never consolidated with him. In the last moments of his search, Raylan even started to imagine it. He pictured Tim flush with another body, just as strong and masculine as his own. It would look absurd at first, then wholly necessary. It was under a flash of pink light that Raylan finally spotted him. He got all that, and it was beautiful. _Tim_ was beautiful, and confident, and into the guy he was practically sat on top of.

Raylan found himself watching for the sake of it. The scene itself was a bizarre thing to witness: Tim giving in to someone else when with Raylan, he was strict as a brick wall. The few cracks were nothing compared to the deluge of affection spent on some dark-haired stranger. A _friend,_ Allison had said. As the man’s hands raked over Tim’s body and settled, pitted, against Tim’s ass, Raylan felt he was vindicated: this was no friendly act. 

Had he arrived moments earlier, Raylan would have only seen the two men at arm’s length, talking casually until Tim completed his survey of the room. No familiar faces in sight, he leaned in close and told his friend to buy another round. He was going to be thirsty, after.

Raylan also would have seen that Tim started out sat next to the man, their bodies turned towards one another, until the need became so great that Tim partially left his seat. He’d brought his outer thigh inwards, then fashioned it between the other man’s knees. When Tim finally broke away, he left a hand in place of his knee, bracing the man’s inner thigh. It was a move not unlike what Raylan had playfully done with Allison on the bench. 

It wasn’t difficult, then, for Tim to spot Raylan; the Marshal was stood right ahead of him. Tim wasn’t surprised Raylan had done his own investigating. He was of a mind to ignore him, but Tim had something mean to say, and never passed up a chance to see Raylan’s face screw up in offense. Half the time, it seemed like no matter how many lines Tim threw at him, Raylan behaved like it was the first time he’d encountered anything short of a glowing compliment. 

(Tim’s favorite was, _You look like shit._ Raylan always looked properly offended, even hurt. Tim felt he didn’t get to say it nearly enough.)

"Allison not give you my message?" Tim’s hand ghosted up the man’s thigh until there wasn’t any thigh left, only pelvis and thinly-clothed dick. 

Raylan didn't bat an eye. "No, I think I got it." 

His hands were on his hips. Somehow, despite the hat, clothes, pose, and grim little gay bar backdrop, Raylan didn’t come off looking like a caricature. He always walked a fine line in that respect, looking like he stalked off a movie set or a carton of cigarettes. The style made him a vision, but the attitude gave him presence. He had a delicate face, and no fear in messing it up. 

He nodded once, asked, “Who’s your friend?”

“Greg,” Tim said, figuring the easiest thing to do would be to answer Raylan, because what kind of comeback would he have to _Greg_? Unless he delved deep and found that inner gem, _More like,_ Gay- _reg._

“Greg been married long?”

Or that. 

“Not to you,” Greg said, affronted. Tim had noticed the ring, too, and knew better than Raylan that it was a new addition. But the little gold band meant so little that Greg hadn’t even thought to take it off in a bar. 

Since his last visit to Greg’s apartment, Tim figured it was fast approaching. The place--usually all clutter and six-packs full of empties--had enough scattered women’s clothing to suggest either a newfound identity, or a serious girlfriend. It was the latter, and Tim willed himself not to be bothered. Her existence didn’t impede getting his dick sucked, anyway. And the soap he washed up with after wasn’t intended for dishes, neither. That shit was lavender. 

“Fair enough,” Raylan said, squaring his gaze firmly on Greg, not Tim. He left the bar the way he came. 

Greg, uneasy, peeled Tim’s hand off his thigh. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, and didn’t let the change of mood stop them. He buried his nose under Greg’s ear, started kissing the way he knew Greg liked. Tim kept his movements slow, his touch decadent. He felt Greg warm to it, although his mouth was still running with stupid questions.

“He an ex?” 

“No. Something like that.” 

“Kind of old, isn’t he?” 

“Mm. How long before I start getting that line?”

"He wears _intensity_ like an overpriced cologne," Greg said, feeling brave only now that Raylan had gone. “Looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“Uh-huh. You wanna share _your_ position on eating me alive?”

"I like him."

"That makes one of us," Tim said, and abandoned Greg’s throat for his mouth. 

\- 

Raylan returned to his car and dropped into the driver’s seat. He turned to Allison and asked shortly, “You didn’t take anything yet, did you?”

Allison blinked. “No, I was waiting for you.”

“Good. Don’t.” Raylan started the car, but kept it in park. The humming A/C did little to cool the mood. “Fuck--all this. Fuck Tim. You want to go back to your place?”

Raylan’s style was more along the lines of the easy, lazy seduction. He got a lot of mileage out of his natural charm and good looks. But to make a blunt proposition was unusual, and for Allison--simply inspired. She made a show of tossing her purchase into the dark depths of her purse.

Excitement--on Allison’s part--and Raylan’s intensity carried them through the drive across town. Just shy of an hour later, they spilled apart in bed, sticky and spent and breathing in great gulps of air. Allison’s hair was a tangled mess, the makeup on her face streaked from sweat, her lipstick lost to Raylan’s mouth and the own backs of her teeth. Grateful welts adorned Raylan’s shoulders and back. He’d been a presence for her, and she’d taken him until she came fitfully and fell back, dizzy. It was well-earned disarray. 

“You work out some stuff?” Allison asked, red-cheeked as if she’d walked miles through the snow and cold. The answer was obvious. 

“Y’allright?” Raylan asked, knowing that he’d brought her to orgasm, but not realizing the physical toll of getting her there. Although Allison kissed his shoulder affectionately, she left the bed and did not return. 

Raylan didn’t know what conclusions she’d made, or what she thought she knew. He assumed everything. In hindsight, he wasn’t exactly subtle: charging into the bar after Tim, leaving heated and horny. 

But Allison sought neither confirmation nor ardent denials, and Raylan parted from her home with a genuine invitation for his return, whenever that may be. 

Raylan drove by the planetarium and saw that Tim’s SUV was still in the lot. Curious if Tim would either go home with the guy he’d been on top of, or return for his car, Raylan staked out the space longer than he’d admit to, later. At least his mind was occupied. Raylan wasn’t like Tim, and didn’t need to rationalize away his emotions or negate what he felt. He only needed to consider what he could do about feeling that way.

There was the obvious, but Tim seemed hellbent on denying them both of that particular resolution. 

Raylan did not have to consider Tim’s imagined responses for long; the man himself was let out at the corner from a silver Audi. Tim started into the lot, then stopped when he saw Raylan. Raylan got out of his car. He saw that Tim's face was flushed, his lips a little fuller, nipped red by some other mouth. 

“The fuck was that,” Raylan asked loudly as Tim brushed by him. “I said--”

When Tim reared back, his hands curled into fists, Raylan thought he was about to hit the ground again. But the only blows Tim issued were to Raylan’s cause.

“All I hear from you is that you wanna fuck me,” Tim hissed. “That ain’t appealing to me, alright? So. It ain’t gonna happen.” 

Raylan and Tim had talked around terms before--in the sense of what Raylan could say to him and when. But now, Tim had retreated to the opposite side of the spectrum: no terms, full stop. 

“Well shit." Raylan wasn't ready to cede all the progress he'd made--imagined or not. His last-ditch effort had to clear the length of all they’d said already, and maybe get Tim to chase it far enough meet Raylan back in the middle. “Do you wanna fuck _me?_ ” 

Tim sucked in a short breath. His face blossomed red and he found himself unable to give Raylan a straight answer. “That’s got-- _nothing_ to do with _nothing_ \--”

Raylan ducked his head to hide his grin. _Happily,_ he’d go those lengths. “So fuck me, Tim!”

They were the only two people in the parking lot, but Tim still felt inclined to tell Raylan _keep it down, not here, not so fucking loud._

Tim shook his head and tried to shut down the conversation again: “That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.” He spoke like it was a necessity that he not only be heard, but understood. “There ain’t a life in this--”

“There is some kind of life, Tim. Or it really is something awful." Raylan’s tone softened to something uncertain as he realized his argument with Tim wasn’t about whether or not _they_ should do anything, but if there was even purpose in trying. "Which you know it don’t gotta be.” 

Raylan wondered if Tim’s hang-up was that he didn’t like what he was doing--sleeping with married men, himself a grown man sneaking around like a scared kid--but never believed an alternative existed for him. Frowning, Raylan wasn’t completely confident in his next sentiment: “You’re smarter than that.” 

Tim stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets, and it was then Raylan realized he’d lost his jacket somewhere between the planetarium and the club. "What do you have, huh?"

"You're right, there's no one I trust implicitly visiting my bed. No one I admire or give a shit about." Raylan glanced towards his car and saw the missing article in the backseat. He left Tim with his admission, and walked the few steps back to his vehicle, then bent to open the side door, and retrieved Tim’s jacket. "But I'm hoping he'll come around." He handed Tim the jacket, a kind of peace-time token. He watched Tim draw it on. "Tell me straight, at least. Am I any worse than him? He's married, for Christ’s sake."

Tim couldn't answer to that the way he'd like--with an ample helping of smug superiority--so he said nothing at all. 

"Well?" Raylan prompted, mindful t keep his tone gentle despite losing his patience. "Or do you think he's onto something, here." It wasn't so much a question as a precisely-worded insult. "If I recall, that church girl up from the hollar seemed sweet on you. Thinkin' you two can share a pious future together?" 

Tim did not let that one slide. "Hey, asshole. I came out, _if you recall._ I'm a step ahead of you."

"There's nothing to tell."

"’Course not!" Tim said, frustrated now. That would always be Raylan's prerogative: asking questions, but being accountable to nothing. "No reason to mention how well you know Boyd Crowder, _subject of a federal investigation._ None at all."

"No," Raylan agreed coolly, "There ain't."

This, more than anything, exhausted Tim. Raylan’s blind spot for Boyd Crowder spanned a mile in every direction. With his index finger and thumb pinched across the bridge of his nose, Tim was reaching his breaking point. He leveled his final accusation: “This is something you _do_ \--"

Raylan barked a laugh, finding the gravity in Tim's voice downright absurd, now. "Date people? Yeah, on occasion.” 

He stared at Tim, saw the unease radiating off his straight shoulders and realized after all this time--despite the jokes and the favors--he'd made zero headway. Tim still regarded him with suspicion, saw a threat in every invitation. although he never got the impression Tim needed to be babied, Raylan felt his last recourse was to explain himself in the simplest terms. He took on a gentle tone, and found a truth that resonated. 

“Talking to you, spending time with you outside of work--I’m not staking anything out, here. _You frustrate me,_ but I like you. Thought I’d give you an opportunity to come to terms with liking me, too.”

Raylan got a sharp, hooded-eye look from Tim, the kind he usually got when asking outrageous favor that Tim himself would--inevitably--fulfill. 

"Tim," Raylan said, exasperated. "Come on. It's no more involved than what I'm saying right here, right now. I'm interested." 

It sounded so simple. If he stepped back and looked at the facts for what they were, Tim supposed it always had been. He’d never believed it, however--never wanted to. Accepting Raylan’s truth meant his own methods were in error. 

Raylan’s honest interest in him made Tim feel stupid.

"Why, though."

Raylan flicked the brim of his hat back and considered it. "Well now, that's something I'd like to show you. Reads better, I think, in action."

“Y'need props,” Tim drawled humorlessly.

“That ain't what you are.”

The sincerity struck Tim like a fist, and he looked away. He found an oil stain on the pavement and stared at it. Suddenly, Raylan grinned, laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not you. I’m just thinking about the last person I thought liked me.”

Tim frowned. “Allison?”

“No, Allison is too smart to like me. I mean… Lindsay.” Raylan laughed again. “Rachel can tell you, she was there. Saw how stupid I looked when she tossed my place, stole my money, and ran off with her ex.”

Tim maintained a level of decorum precisely _because_ Rachel had already told him of what a sorry sight Raylan had made of himself, then. The whole sordid affair--a couple stolen grand, chickens, beanbag rifles--seemed to culminate in Raylan’s inability to see through a bad character, so long as she had a pretty face. 

Shrugging, Tim allowed: “I don’t have much in the way of exes.”

“That’s fine, I don’t have much money.” Raylan adjusted his hat, then looked awkwardly up at the sky. He’d wondered something earlier--if there was anything else to see beyond a sorry smattering of stars, and if scientists in the planetarium had found it yet. Raylan couldn’t see much. That was always the case in Kentucky. 

“I ain’t been much for picking women, when I do,” Raylan said, his head still angled upwards like he was making a confession clear to God. “The men, though,” he straightened his posture, gave Tim a sure nod. “I’m pretty proud of my record, there.”

Tim knew he couldn’t say the same.

But he _wanted to._

“Yeah,” Tim said, and Raylan wasn’t sure what he was answering to, until he was. Tim buried his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, looked around the lot. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Yeah?” Raylan asked, his tone bordering hopeful. 

“ _Maybe,_ ” Tim repeated, firm, but soon cracked a smile. 

“Nine o’clock next Tuesday, I read ya loud and clear.”

“Fuck off.” Tim shook his head, smiled wider. He felt light, where the pot and his company at the bar had made him feel heavy. 

"I'm honored," Raylan grinned, and didn’t push for more because he knew when a deal was done. Tim wasn’t staring at him like he wished to set him on fire, for one. 

When Raylan was back to his car, and Tim partway to his, Raylan couldn’t help but call out: “Hey! If you’re wondering, you’re no catch. Clearly, you’re a deranged, emotionally stunted moron. But that seems to be my type.” 

Tim flipped him off and hollered back, “I never believed that _opposites attract_ bullshit, neither.”

Raylan had wild visions of getting together sooner rather than later. Tim, too. Just the idea made him sick with excitement. Raylan imagined no later than Wednesday. Tim thought a week from now, Saturday, was generous. Neither considered what would ultimately befall them--and the entire Kentucky Marshal Service--in the meantime. 

Their plans were shot, to say the least. Excuse the pun.


	6. + (Season 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished! Thank you, kind readers, for sticking with it. :)

Raylan didn't love Tim, to start. He wanted inside that smart mouth, sure. Over time he even came to like Tim as a person, appreciate his humor and all the sincerity it hid. Tim, meanwhile, knew the types of men he could engage: quiet, cautious, understated--all the things Raylan could never will himself to be, either out of pride or practice. When it _did_ happen for the two of them, anyway, it happened three times over. Raylan and Tim fell a little bit in love with one another in a hospital room, a mountain top, and an airport Dunkin Donuts.

\- 

Raylan stepped into the hotel room after Tim. The doorway was narrow, but there wasn't much to see, anyway. The place was all light green wallpaper over plyboard walls, and carpet from the _salvaged from the warehouse flood_ collection. The drab little room looked like what it was: the cheapest accommodations to hold them until the earliest flight back to Lexington. It was limbo, plain and simple. 

"Well,” Raylan sighed. “This is unfortunate." 

"You got big dreams staying overnight in bumfuck nowhere, Wyoming?" 

"Reasonable dreams," Raylan lamented, dropping his duffle on the nearest single bed. "A new acquaintance, a winning smile, a preference for bourbon... Proximity." 

"I was talkin' about the room," Tim said, ignoring Raylan's grin. "Well, best of luck to you." He gave the wooden bed stand a gentle kick and added, "Feel free to push 'em together. You wanna meet at the airport Saturday, or should I swing by, pick you up?" 

Tim kept his own bag--his army green monstrosity, practically empty save for the rifle bag giving it shape--secured to his shoulders. He continued, "Figure you could spend a few days here, banging single moms on layovers." 

Raylan frowned, caught up on all that Tim had said and put it together. "Where are you going?" 

Tim turned and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the small hotel window and the great expanse of land beyond it. "Yellowstone. Going camping." 

"Camping," Raylan repeated. 

"Unless we wanna go retrieve our guy from lock-up, give him a head start and catch him again a couple times over." Seeing that Raylan was looking at him like Tim had just introduced the tumor in his head impairing all his decisions, Tim furthered his case: "I got my sleeping bag, figure I can rent a tent from that place opposite the diner, get tonight through Saturday morning. If you need the car you can just drop me off close. I can meet you back here."

"I don't _need the car_ \--where am I gonna go?" 

"So I can have the car, then?" Tim wandered in a wide circle around the room, not quite desperate to leave but getting there fast. "I'm only gonna turn my phone on for three hour intervals, save the battery. Nine to noon, three to six," Tim shrugged, "In case, I dunno, you do something stupid. Plan ahead."

"You know, you need a permit to camp out there." It was a weak attempt on Raylan's part to corral Tim, like he knew Art wanted.

"I got a buddy works backcountry," Tim said, his thumbs breezing over his cell's keypad as he spoke, "Left the service, decided he liked being a Ranger so much he'd keep the title." 

"Are all you Rangers this funny?" 

Tim recognized a stalling tactic when he heard one. He looked at Raylan plainly and said, “You look like you’re about to try and tell me _no._ ” Raylan drew in a breath and Tim knew the score before he even let it out. “Art put you on suicide watch, huh?”

“It ain’t like that,” Raylan said. “Explicitly.”

“So tell me what it’s like--explicitly.”

Raylan adjusted his hat for lack of anything better to do. The gesture had the added bonus of obscuring his face.

“It’s what it fucking looks like,” Raylan finally admitted. His tone was short and exasperated. “Art wanted you on this case--he did. The guy’s not dangerous, just jumpy.”

“And you’re here because…?” Tim waved a hand, then answered himself, “What, he jumps too high, you’re here to cover the spread?”

Raylan really wished he didn’t have to be the one to say this, because in any other set of circumstances, he wouldn’t go to bat for it. “You got ‘em worried. Art, Rachel. It’s not that you saved her life, it’s the way you--”

“I know what I did.” Tim snapped. His right hand twitched but, Raylan noticed, he refrained from rubbing his shoulder. It had to be sore, after the long flight and then tackling their fugitive to the ground in the baggage claim. 

“Then you know it’s hard to appreciate a thing like that, when it comes wrapped like it was.”

Tim’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it in favor of taking a stand. “The guy with the individual swastikas tattooed on his knuckles was gonna kill her. _Wanted_ to kill her. He didn’t _want_ to kill _me,_ didn’t, and we all made it out alive. ‘Cept him.”

Tim was getting tired of sharing that story. He checked his phone.

“All set,” he said, triumphant. Then, looking like he genuinely did not want to extend the offer, Tim asked, "You wanna come along?" 

Raylan very nearly commented on Tim’s lack of enthusiasm seriously, but held his tongue. Things were still raw, even two months out. 

"And leave behind all this?" Raylan waved a hand, indicating the lackluster accommodations. Then, he looked at Tim and his brain jumped towards conclusions he'd set aside months ago. Swaying Tim's company became _keeping Tim company_ in so many ways Raylan didn't feel right about. But this had been Tim's idea, and therein held genuine promise. "You don't mind?"

Tim shrugged. 

"Well now that I feel so welcome," Raylan said as Tim sidestepped him and walked again right out the door.

Tim leaned against the door jam for a moment, unsure if Raylan really meant to join him or only wanted to make enough of an effort so that he could report back to Art, _Well, I tried._

"Please, Raylan,” Tim templed his hands. Although the gesture was more akin to _Mr. Burns_ than prayer, he seemed sincere in the effort. “Join me, lest I perish in the wilderness without you."

"That's better," Raylan said with a smile. He joined Tim in the hall and locked the door after him, cementing his intentions. "I'll see about getting the deposit back on the room."

Tim issued a lazy salute. "Meet you at the car, camper.”

\- 

When Raylan met Tim again in the rental vehicle, Tim was on the phone, relating their predicament: the fugitive was in local lock-up, and their flight back to Kentucky wasn’t for another three days. 

“Rachel?” Raylan asked, surprised. He didn’t think she and Tim were much on talking terms again. 

Tim shrugged. “She hardly says two words to me, and neither of ‘em is ‘no.’” Then, like he felt compelled to defend himself, Tim said: “It’s embarrassing for her, not me.” 

“Don’t mess with her,” Raylan warned. 

Tim gave him a smart look. “Don’t save her life, don’t use her misplaced guilt against her,” he waved a hand this way and that with each point, “Christ Almighty, Raylan. Am I not allowed to breathe, neither?”

“Now there’s a thought,” Raylan remarked, and their drive was made in silence.

Their first stop was a rental gear place just up the road. Mainly it trafficked in campers, but Tim shared a few words with the owner and left the place with a tightly knotted neon orange monstrosity under one arm. Raylan only bothered to join in when Tim next stopped at a camping and sporting goods store.

The place was flashy, boasting all matter of environmentally-safe food stuffs and packaging, indestructible cookware, tear-resistant clothing, bear repellant… Tim was careful with his purchases, only seeking out the necessities: a second sleeping bag, small first aid kit, a water purifier and flashlight. The latter two were purchased reluctantly, as Tim mumbled something about having better ones at home, and why hadn't he thought to bring them?

“‘Cause our fugitive frequents airport hangars, not the cave systems from _The Descent._ ” At Tim's flat look, Raylan defended: “It was one of the in-flight movies.”

“Uh-huh. Whatcha got there?” 

"Thought I'd spring for these," Raylan said, brandishing two small fishing poles. One was black, the other blue. "Nothing special, but," he frowned a little, uncertain of how much he wanted to share about his thought process, here. "Compact."

"Stayed away from pink," Tim observed, catching on anyway. 

“I know it’ll be a while before she can use it,” Raylan said. A smile crept across his face as he thought about his daughter. She was still small yet, oblivious to the Facetime feature on her mother’s computer which allowed Raylan to see her at all. If she did recognize Raylan as her daddy, she’d be in for a surprise: he wasn’t four inches high and pixelated. 

“Should probably start her on something more familiar, like a glock,” Tim said, settling into his usual drawl. “It’s in her blood.”

“That ain’t funny,” Raylan said. From the start, he wanted a different life for his child. Not a whiff of the life Raylan lived would touch her--except, perhaps, in his absence. 

Tim, who’d never given much thought to a child until one was wailing next to him in a crowded plane or movie theater, shrugged. For a man with a bum shoulder, he seemed to be doing that an awful lot. “A baby with a firearm? Are you kidding? I’d see that movie, _and_ the sequel.” 

“That mine?” Raylan asked as they approached the check-out counter. He nodded towards the sleeping bag under Tim’s arm. 

"I'll buy it,” Tim said, dismissing any further discussion. “Mine's about had it. Could use a new one."

The girl at the cash register had blue streaks in her blonde hair, which was probably the most outrageous thing to hit her little Wyoming town since cable TV. 

"We have larger sizes," the girl said, eyeing the single-sized sleeping bag and the two men stood to purchase it, "To share." 

"Well maybe if we'd brought his girlfriend along," Tim said dryly, and paid. 

Raylan smiled at the exchange, then bought his own items and told her, complete with a tip of his hat, _"You have a good day, now, miss."_

Their next stop was a convenience store, where Tim stocked up on bottled water and protein bars. His final selection was a bottle of cheap bourbon. 

"Really?" Raylan asked, although he wasn't surprised. 

"I should get two, right? Good thinking, I'll get two." 

Returning to the car, Raylan asked, “You alright to carry all that?”

“You offering to help or are you trying to make me feel like a total invalid?” Tim involuntarily adjusted his bags. “Shoulder’s fine.” 

“I’m offering."

They laid out their supplies on the hood of their rental car, and Raylan watched as Tim sorted their things to better distribute weight between both bags. Raylan's duffle was an awkward fit, so Tim gave him the new sleeping bag, water purifier, food, and little else. Raylan's own belongings were minimal: an extra shirt, underwear, toiletries. 

“Come on, I can carry more.”

“My bag’s bigger.”

“Let me carry your bag, then.” Raylan leaned against the car, turned his head up and let the sun warm his face. 

“You do realize I used to do this professionally, right?”

“Soldiering in Afghanistan’s no different from camping in Wyoming.” Raylan said the words slow, as if trying to figure their meaning once strung together. 

Tim sucked at his teeth, and saw Raylan’s meaning. The sentiment couldn’t stand. “There are some subtle differences,” he allowed.

“You plan to shoot anybody while camping?”

“If I gotta,” Tim said, zipping up Raylan's bag and tightening the strings on his own duffle. 

Raylan raised two fingers and a thumb. “Not it.”

“We’ll see.” 

\- 

They drove the rental up through camp grounds and the outskirts of the park, passing RVs and minivans packed with surly teens and exhausted parents. They parked and still had a ways to go, yet. 

The journey to the Ranger station was isolated enough, and Raylan had to wonder about what he was getting into following Tim's lead. But after nearly three hours of hiking from the last narrow road they'd seen, they found a small outpost and in it, Tim's Ranger buddy.

"Rick!" Tim called, his face plastered with such a shit-eating grin that Raylan wasn't sure if the name was genuine or not. 

Ranger Rick looked like a character--arguably, a cartoon. His nose was alternatively wide, flat, hooked, and blunted--as though it had been broken in several places, multiple times. He balanced wrap-around sunglasses over his knit beanie, wore a long cardigan over his grey and green Park Ranger uniform, and sported a ginger beard that liberally dusted his throat with unkempt hairs. He met Tim with a howling _“Mo-ther-fuck-er!”_ and the kind of embrace he might have modeled after attacking bears’. Raylan, on the other hand, received a milder welcome.

“Boss hat, bro.”

Inside the cozy outpost--which housed a small cot, a desk, a radio, a stack of poorly-hidden porno magazines, and little else--Tim made the proper introductions and explained his and Raylan’s unplanned presence in the national park. Rick waved off all the exposition, and looked curiously at Tim from all sides, like he was in search of something particular.

“I heard some stuff.” 

Tim’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “Yeah?”

“Did you break your arm because you fisted a dude so hard it got lost up there?”

Tim smirked, looked Rick in the eye. “Ah, you are mistaken. I got _shot_ because some dude saw my dick and thought it was an intruder.” 

“Did it… come in the backdoor?” Rick grinned wide and showed off two rows of neat, white teeth. “Seriously, how’s the shoulder?” 

“It’s fine,” Tim said. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Rick punched Tim’s shoulder, hard. “Fuck yeah.”

Raylan got the feeling that, like his injury, Tim hadn’t spoke a word about coming out, but the information found its way to his military buddies, anyway. Raylan knew a touch of that from his days at Glynco. Particularly among the instructors, it was a tight-knit group. And when the job took everyone their separate ways, there was always the wife who just discovered google alerts and the group e-mail feature mistaking gossip for closeness. 

Rick retrieved two hastily-procured all-purpose permits for the park, as well as three beers from a mini fridge under his desk. While they enjoyed them he asked about who Tim had kept in touch with over the years, and filled him in where he’d let a relation stray. Admittedly, Rick did most of the talking. 

“Hey, you remember DeMarcus?” Excitedly, Rick elbowed Raylan. “Huge dude. Walked away from an NFL contract to join up.”

“What about DeMarcus?” Tim asked. He wondered when it happened that he was wary hearing after friends. Rick’s enormous grin should have put him at ease, but Tim knew that look from so many dark times, he couldn’t trust it anymore. 

“Got signed. DL for the Saints.” Rick shoved Raylan again, eager to make a point. “Hits _hard._ Could run into a dude sideways and knock his dick off.”

“Ain’t that something,” Raylan said, giving a lazy smile and a slight raise of his beer bottle. 

Rick drew them up a map, showing the farthest they could hike in the days allotted. It was a wid C-shape that circled back to the station. 

He then made a dotted line that cut the distance by almost half. “In case you’re a couple of pussies,” he said, and happily accepted the punch to the shoulder Tim gave him. 

Before parting, Rick also gave them what looked like a little steel drum. 

The portable fireplace, he explained, "Looks like something out of the Barbie Dream House, I know, but these little fuckers rule."

Tim secured it neatly into his bag, and thanked his friend. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Rick told him. “Shit. As little as I see you, you’d think I lived out in the middle of the woods.”

“Well you got it easy,” Tim smirked. “I live in Kentucky.” 

\- 

They followed Rick’s crude map and started from the station towards a ridge of land that, to one side, spilled out into a valley. On the other, the rocky start of a mountain. The real bulk of it was some distance away, hanging blue above a spread of sun-kissed greenery. Other hikers fell from view and soon, Raylan and Tim found themselves the sole occupants of a great stretch of unmarred natural wonder. No crudely rendered fences cut through the landscape, delineating one clan’s space from another. No mountains were scalped, blown apart, dug out, and emptied. 

Raylan fell back, snapped a picture of the view with his smartphone. The noise caught Tim's attention and he stopped, too, and waited Raylan out. Raylan wasn’t what Tim would call the Instagramming type, and his pinched expression said as much. 

"For Willa," Raylan said, smoothing a thumb over his phone. "She likes pictures."

"So you're told." Tim said, and continued walking through the tall grass. 

"So I'm told," Raylan scoffed, "What baby doesn't like colors and shapes?" He realized, then, that Tim hadn't been serious with his comment. But Raylan never allowed himself to feel embarrassed, so he shrugged and continued: "Winona, too. She's got this thing where she won't go somewhere unless someone she knows gives the recommendation. She's got to see pictures of people having fun before she can imagine it for herself." 

Tim stopped walking and turned to face Raylan. 

"You want me to look like I'm having fun?" he offered, his tone slick as greased butter.

Raylan waved him off and continued to sift through photos in his phone. "Naw, I already got a few of you." 

_That_ , of all things, silenced Tim. It was a door he didn't want to so much as _knock on_ with even the innocuously asked, "You got pictures of me?" 

Tim's mind went racing as he imagined how far back this practice could have gone. Did he have pictures from the night Tim stayed with him in Harlan? Or, worse, from the morning after, when the two she'd their shirts to dig a grave? Christ--was it at the hospital? 

As if reading Tim's mind, Raylan chuckled and assured him, "It's all PG."

"You want a picture," Tim started awkwardly, "Of you. Uh. For Winona?" However foolish he felt in asking, Tim figured he could get a look at Raylan's phone in the process. He held out his hand, cementing the offer. 

"Ain't that neighborly of you," Raylan said, grinning. He shrugged, adjusted his hat, checked that the scene behind him was appropriately breathtaking. "Sure." 

But Raylan didn't hand Tim his phone.

Tim frowned, then stretched his arm out a little further. He was nowhere near breaching the distance between Raylan and himself, but he wasn’t about to walk the ten paces back to do Raylan a favor, neither. 

"I don't want it," Tim said, believing that would clarify things. 

"You can send it to me," Raylan teased, tickled that he'd roped Tim into such a position as this. 

"Oh, thanks." Taking his cues from Raylan, now, Tim feigned complete nonchalance. He slipped his own phone from his pocket and took the picture. The lighting was fine and Raylan looked his usual self. It was a real nice picture, goddamn him. Tim near about broke his own thumb punching in Raylan’s number, sending him the picture, then deleting the original from his own phone. 

Raylan looked on at the image, pleased. “Office Christmas card, what’d’ya think?” 

“I think if you keep after me for selfies, we’re gonna end up taking the pussy route.” 

“You?” Raylan grinned. “Never.”

They walked a while longer, with Tim presenting a hard wall of silence Raylan bumped into on occasion. Tim kept them on the path provided by the ridge, and as they hiked the valley dipped lower and lower. They took a corner, hugged the stoney mountainside, and spotted movement below. Amidst the green and blue of interlaying earth and stream, great creatures plodded through shallow waters and feasted on tall grass. 

“How many do you think there are?” Raylan asked, stopping along with Tim to observe the herd of buffalo. They were massive, even from a distance.

“Twenty-eight,” Tim said without hesitation.

“What. Really? Are there?” Raylan narrowed his eyes, began to count.

“No, not really. How the fuck should I know? Take your goddamn picture.”

“Twenty-five,” Raylan said smugly, then snapped his photo.

Tim, already ahead of him, mumbled, “There are three in the water.”

When Raylan caught up, he was grinning. He’d check the picture later to confirm his own count, but for the moment liked that Tim was talking to him again, making unfunny jokes and saying shit just to throw Raylan off. However tiresome, it was Tim’s own method of flirting. 

“Reminds me of a song,” Raylan said, craning his neck back for one last look. Taking the next ridge would obscure their view of the buffalo. 

“Can I go ahead and ask that you not sing it?” 

Their hike got steeper, the earth below their feet more rocky and temperamental. Stones dislodged themselves under Raylan’s cowboy boots, although any fall would yet garner only a few bumps, and perhaps a bruised pride for the climb back up. Raylan, perpetually at Tim’s back, had noticed the man’s shifting shadow as it was alternatively elongated, stunted, and moved under the sunlight. They’d hiked a good long while now, been at it since mid-morning. If Raylan had any earlier doubts about finding sleeping when the sun went down, he dismissed them now. Rest would be well-deserved. 

Tim, however, showed no signs of stopping. He didn’t even break stride when he removed his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow. His hair was growing out--Raylan remembered visiting Tim after he was released from the hospital, and being surprised how short Tim had cut it, how young it made him look. 

At the time, Tim had mumbled something about how, with his bum arm, the sheared cut made showering easier. Raylan didn’t say anything about it, but was glad that by the time Tim returned to work--in as diminished capacity as his shoulder and supposed mental state allowed--his hair had grown out considerably. 

The hat went back on again, this time with the bill facing forward to counter the bright orange light from the setting sun. Raylan was at least glad not to have to stare at the Marshal’s logo on the cap anymore. 

They walked until the light had vanished completely, then walked half an hour more. Camp was made in a small clearing, backed against the towering crest of a mountain. Even in the dark, Raylan could tell the stone was drawn in a mosaic of colors. He thought about taking the flashlight to it, but decided to wait until morning, and see the thing as intended.

Tim managed the tent well enough in the dark, and Raylan supposed a little of what Tim had told him was true. He was no novice. Every necessary movement--from clearing the area of brush and stones to securing the tent with spikes--was no chore for Tim. He took to them like one would punch an elevator button after stepping inside the car--instinctively. 

Further on the list of things Tim wasn't kidding about was the impending death of his sleeping bag. It was in tatters. It had a gaping hole at the right corner and Tim kept the thing rolled tight with a knotted shoelace. Any bounce of cushion was beat out of it, and it unfurled flat like a bedsheet. It didn't even zip longways anymore, which Raylan found distractingly sad. 

The one Tim bought that afternoon--and that would serve as Raylan's for the next two nights--was almost an identical shade of green as Tim's. 

They were both tired after an entire day’s worth of hiking, but Raylan didn’t think that was reason enough not to share two words in the twenty minutes it took to set up camp and crawl into their respective sleeping bags. He found himself awake long after Tim’s breathing became slow and steady. Raylan remained awake, his head suddenly filled with the memory of the awful event that brought them here. 

\- 

_(two months ago)_

In an open field in Kentucky, the plantlife was striped of any color by the effects of nearby coal mining operations. It was five in the morning and Interim Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Rachel Brooks was on the ground, her ankle snapped and swollen, her pant legs muddy. From the opposite end of the field, Tim had climbed a rusted tractor, a thing older than he was. From its vantage point, he spotted her. She was small in the distance, curled in on herself, in too much pain to continue blindly on. Tim leapt from the tractor, rolled, and stumbled into a harried sprint. He carried his sniper rifle under one arm as he rushed to her aid. 

It wasn’t until he was already running in great strides that Tim saw her assailant step from beyond the treeline. Aaron Bucknor was a hulking mass of a man who had spent the better part of the last _two days_ forcing her into a dense spread of woods, confusing her movements, and--essentially--hunting her. And already, he was closer to Rachel than Tim was. 

The skinhead fugitive had a reputation to uphold, but pointing the Marshal’s own service weapon at her as she grit her teeth and choked back pained screams was better than he could have imagined. She looked so scared, _and it was about time._ He still remembered the smug look on her face when she led the raid to bust him. That was nine months ago, but it might as well have been nine years. Prison didn’t agree with Bucknor. That’d be his reasoning if anyone ever bothered to ask why he’d broken out--they’d assume it was for revenge on the bitch cop, but that was miles from the truth. Bucknor had seen her face only after he’d escaped, plastered all over some newspaper. He read about her promotion and decided to test her mettle. 

Bucknor saw Tim and leveled Rachel’s weapon at him, taking aim. When Tim kept running, undisturbed, Bucknor shifted his sights to Rachel. Tim slowed.

“Drop it!” Bucknor shouted at Tim, taking steps ever-closer towards Rachel. He was still almost fifty yards away, and took pleasure in precisely this positioning. Rachel, crouched and sunken in the cold earth, could do nothing but await her end. “Drop your weapon or I’ll fucking kill her!” Bucknor shouted, and steadied his shot. He’d aim for her chest, figuring if he missed her heart and hit an appendage, he’d still win: maybe she’d finally scream. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Tim stripped off his sniper rifle and dropped it into the dry, dead grass of the field. He kept running. He didn’t run to Rachel. Instead, he passed her and fixed himself between Bucknor and his intended target. Bucknor grinned, and Tim was finally close enough that he could see the yellow of the man’s heinous smile.

“You don’t want to do that, buddy,” Bucknor told him. He grinned wider. “Me and the lady here have history.” 

Unarmed and out of breath, Tim kept stalking forwards. 

Rachel finally choked out a plea: “Tim! _Don’t._ ” 

Tim carried on. His breathing ought to have been ragged from the sprint across the field, but it was strangely steady. His cheeks were pale, his lips and nose red. He was close enough to hurl a rock and peg Bucknor square between the eyes.

But he didn’t have a rock.

“You’re a funny fucker,” Bucknor said, and fired.

Tim twisted backwards and Rachel screamed. The bullet pierced his shoulder, carried straight through muscle, ripped into flesh, and scattered bone. Tim hit the earth awkwardly--his whole body jerked to the right and he dropped, knees down, splayed, but caught himself and remained partially upright. After a startled gasp of breath, he stood up, undeterred. Blood blossomed from his shoulder and drained down the U.S. Marshal slicker. With each step Tim took the wound seemed to sing, the blood draining in heavy rivulets. Tim kept coming, towing Bucknor's line of sight to Rachel. When his wild grin finally faltered and--most importantly--his eyes darted towards Tim's ugly wound, Tim took his chance. 

He pulled his hidden sidearm from the waist of his jeans, and shot Aaron Bucknor square in the chest at near point-blank range. 

Tim crumpled to the ground again, and Rachel drug herself to his side. She applied pressure on the wound, but never once stopped screaming in Tim’s face. Shock touched deep in her soul. She knew the horror of any number of things--human error, human hatred, ignorance, fear. She couldn’t place this in any such category.

She dug into Tim’s jeans pockets for his cell phone and called for backup. Tim’s blood on her hands made the device slick and unruly. It was by some divine providence, then, that Art and the team in his command were already coming over the hillside. From far off, they’d seen the exchange. Even without Rachel’s vantage point, every living person in that stretch of nowhere, Kentucky, saw the same thing. From any angle, it looked like a suicide mission. 

. 

After, Rachel cried. She never cried. Tim heard her as he was being transferred into the ambulance, a plastic mask pulled over his nose and mouth, a new set of hands on him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Hearing her shuddering sobs felt worse than any gunshot wound. 

Tim didn’t hear much else until he was out of surgery, some four hours later. 

. 

“Like a man possessed,” Art told Raylan, after. Each had a cup of bitter coffee in hand at the hospital, wishing it was something with a kick. "He ain't right."

Raylan didn't bother to conceal his snort of derision. "Please, Art. It was stupid, sure, but what brave thing isn't?" 

He hadn’t been there. First and foremost, Raylan couldn’t level the blame at anyone more than himself. He’d been detained elsewhere, leading a secondary team on a tip from Bucknor’s last cellmate. He didn’t understand the air of unease every Marshal in the building seemed to breathe in, like it was some noxious cloud pitched just ahead of them, and they had to tip forward to taste it. Everything was that off-kilter, and yet the facts--as Raylan knew them--were simple, uncomplicated. Tim had taken a bullet in the exchange. 

He’d said as much, seeking confirmation when she arrived at the hospital half an hour late. Nelson, who’d been with Art’s team, took pains to look Raylan in the eye when he corrected, “There was no exchange. Tim _took_ a bullet.” 

Raylan just didn’t see it--the cause for concern--until he observed Tim joking and flirting with a male nurse. From anyone else, it might have been a celebration of life. Coming from Tim, however, it was residual recklessness. He was looking to punch his ticket some other way.

Art stared at the scene, too. He and Raylan were a safe distance away, just outside the observation room and positioned so that Tim would have to turn his head clear around to see them standing there. “Do you know if there’s a, ah, fella?” Art frowned, tried again. “Someone we should call,” he clarified. 

“There’s no boyfriend,” Raylan said. He was adamant. 

Art raised his eyebrows. “So you two--you been talkin’? Everything okay? Tim’s… okay?”

“Tim’s just fine.”

“No one’s messing with him?”

“After this? Who would dare?”

Getting Art off Tim’s case so fast, Raylan was pretty pleased with himself. He looked on after Tim, who was teasing a corner of the nurse’s scrubs between his fingers, like he thought them to be a fine silk. _May the little shit never say I didn’t do him no favors._

“Where’s Rachel?” Raylan asked. He'd visited her earlier, after she was seen by doctors about her ankle. Raylan figured she'd inquire after her hero as soon as she could, but she hadn’t minced words: _I can’t look at him. I can’t._

Art's gaze flicked left, then right down the hallway. He didn't want to be overheard. “Went home with her mother. Didn’t want to see him."

Raylan nodded. “She may be the one to look out for, then.” 

“Hm. No, my money’s still on the dumb kid who walked into the line of fire of a fugitive skinhead psychopath.”

“He’s not a kid.”

“If he ain’t a dumb kid, he’s an adult idiot. I can’t have two in my office.”

“How is this now about me?”

"This," Art pointed to Tim through the observation window, "Is something you would do."

Raylan smiled wryly. "I'll tell Tim you said that," he quipped without a hint of irony. "He'll appreciate it."

A team of nurses started down the hall, and took a hard, uniform turn into Tim’s room. Art and Raylan watched, curious, as a nurse started to speak while the other two took opposite sides of the bed. They meant to affix wrist restraints to the bed rails, and indicated their intentions.

To stop them, Tim grabbed his right hand to his left bicep, just below the gunshot wound. His grip was tight and painful, but for the nurses to attempt to yank it away would be far worse and potentially damage the shoulder. To their credit, they didn’t even try. It was a smart move most patients weren’t too quick to think of, and beyond sedating Tim--they were at a loss. 

While pushing off the wall and following Art into the observation room, Raylan said, "Guess they got wind of the police report.”

Keeping his voice low, Art reasoned, “You walk into the line of fire like that, there’s more than a bullet hole to be accounted for.”

Tim turned to Art immediately--not for one second loosening his own grip on his arm. Art stood just beyond the doorway, hardly in the room more than a couple of inches. If he wasn’t panicked and just out of surgery, Tim might have noticed that. 

“This is a mistake. Tell them, Art. I’m not-- _at risk_ \--” he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he shot a dark look to the nurse who had been speaking, and that said enough.

Art was quiet. He ran a hand over his bald head and deferred to medical judgment.

“It’s just for the night,” Art said.

Tim grinned wide and uneasy. He liked joking around with his boss, but now was not the time. 

“Boss,” he said, a warning. When Art didn’t relent Tim immediately changed gears. The smile fell from his features in jilted movements. Still clinging to the light Tim saw in Art if not in himself, Tim pleaded gently, “Art. Come on.” 

“Just for the night,” Art repeated.

Small and defeated, Tim spoke his last defense: “It’s five in the afternoon.” 

Raylan, who was stood just behind Art, looked at the floor. It was the next best thing he could do besides putting his fingers in his ears. He didn’t want any part of this--not as a witness, much less a participant. 

Eventually, Tim complied. Not because he didn’t think he could hold them off, but because he wanted Art to see his decision borne out, and to shame him with the results. He stared hard-eyed at Art as he surrendered his arms to the new score of nurses. The one he’d been flirting with busied himself with something across the room, his interest in the much-lauded hero-cop dashed. His large, protruding ears were tinged red and he had a wide-eyed expression that he hid from everyone else in the room, but could be read still from his awkward shuffling of items of the far counter and too-straight posture: _dodged a crazy bullet there._

The restraints were wide and lined with terrycloth, but that didn't make them feel any less medieval. And sure enough, after Art and Raylan left the room, Art related that allowing such a measure felt like putting down the family dog.

“He’s not going to forgive me for that one,” Art sighed. 

“I wouldn’t,” Raylan agreed. If he wasn’t so tired, Raylan would have been furious. He’d have shown the anger Tim dutifully held back. 

“Couldn’t forgive myself, though. If I didn’t.”

Raylan clapped Art on the shoulder--not in congratulations, but in condolence. 

"I'm going to see about Rachel," Art said, no longer able to look at Tim in any capacity. "You good to stay here?"

Raylan really wasn't planning on it, but he didn't hear much of a choice. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen the exchange, and hearing that a Deputy U.S. Marshal caught a bullet was never cause for a vigil if he was up and swearing a few hours later. But this was different. Somehow, in ways Raylan didn’t yet understand, this wasn’t over.

"Sure, Art." Raylan waited all the same for the room to clear of nurses before joining Tim. 

“Get out,” Tim said, his voice clipped. “Or untie me and _then_ get out.”

With one nurse still in the room, Raylan was quick to answer, “You know I can’t do that,” before taking a seat. He smiled at the nurse and gave a reassuring nod.

Tim’s expression was blank, purposefully smoothed and calm. He refused to be embarrassed by this turn of events. It was a mistake, however hurtful. He could wait it out, and all the better to prove his point. There was nothing wrong with him.

As soon as the nurse departed the room, however, Raylan swaggered over to disrupt Tim’s plans. He flicked open the bonds, then let Tim decide whether or not to wriggle out of them. Because his pride was stronger than reason, Tim freed himself. 

“Art said he couldn’t forgive himself if something happened,” Raylan explained.

“And you don’t have a conscience, so,” Tim didn’t complete his thought.

Raylan looked Tim in the eye. “I don’t believe anything will happen,” he corrected--although he wouldn’t swear to that statement in court. Tim’s gaze flicked downward and Raylan knew he was right to have his reservations. 

“How's Rachel?” Tim asked, because he hadn’t seen her. “Her ankle okay?”

“She went home,” Raylan said, smoothing his hands down his thighs. His legs were spread open, relaxed. Raylan sunk into the visitor’s seat, seeking more comfort than the stiff plastic shape allowed. “She was pretty shook up.”

Tim nodded. They all were; there’d been nothing from her but radio silence for almost two days, the search party only finding her vehicle late last night and sparking the fevered pursuit through the backwoods. “She coming by tomorrow, you think?”

“No,” Raylan answered honestly. 

Raylan studied Tim, and saw his expertly crafted stoicism finally falter. 

“I wasn’t going to stand there and do nothing,” Tim said. 

Raylan shook his head in agreement. “Not like you.”

“I had to drop my rifle.” It sounded like Tim was still trying to convince himself of that one.

“You did.”

“I had to catch him off guard.”

“You certainly did that.” Raylan chanced a small smile. “I saw him in the ICU; he was ranting about you bein’ a zombie.”

Tim frowned. “He’s still alive?”

Raylan nodded. “For the moment.” It didn’t look good.

“Then _what the fuck_ is everyone losing their shit over?” Tim snapped. “ _Rachel_ is the one we ought to be thinkin’ about. How was she left alone? Where was her security detail? Do we even know?”

Raylan shrugged; it didn’t seem to matter, now, how all this came into being. The fact of the matter was, Rachel was tormented by a killer, and that trend didn’t end with Bucknor. 

“She thought you were gonna die, right there in front of her. She couldn’t know what was in your head. Even now, Tim. What the hell were you thinking?”

Raylan talked down to a lot of idiot criminals--several a day, on average. But asking after Tim’s incompetence, Raylan sounded like he was impersonating someone else--Art, of all people.

Whether Tim would have answered him or not was of no matter; a nurse returned to the room and promptly saw that the restraints were undone. 

“I had to scratch,” Tim said calmly while she refastened them. “My balls.” 

“I offered,” Raylan said, shrugging helplessly. She left the door to the room wide open when she next departed.

In that time, Tim did conjure up some semblance of an answer for Raylan. It was slow-coming and limited, but honest. 

“I wasn’t thinking about getting killed. You can’t, else nothin’d get done.” He changed pronouns, and to Raylan it was very clear he was repeating something he’d been told, taught, and never abandoned. 

“You don’t ever think of it, one day it’ll up and surprise you.”

“What’s life without a few surprises?” Although bound, Tim made jazz hands.

Raylan had to smile at the absurdity. “Point taken.”

“Clean it up for when you gab to Art about me.”

“Anything for you, Tim.”

Tim closed his eyes. “Get that nurse back in here,” he said coolly. “The cute one, with the ears.”

Raylan crossed his arms and turned his smile down at the floor. He was slow to rise from his seat, but did so eventually. 

But again, Tim spoke--and it stopped Raylan in his tracks.

"I fucked up," Tim admitted, but not for the reasons that had him tethered to his hospital bed. "The second I saw him at the tree line, I should have set up a shot. I shouldn't have kept running towards Rachel." It was a hard truth to come to--that he should have waited, let his partner suffer longer, just to be certain the area was clear. “But I couldn’t risk it after he took aim at her. In the time I’d need to get my shot, he’d have killed her.”

“I’m glad for what you did, Tim. I think we all are.” Raylan wondered if anyone had thanked him, yet.

"Yeah, sure feels like it." 

Raylan spotted Tim’s go-bag by one of the empty visitor’s chairs. He stooped to pick it up, then rifled through it. He found a book--some of the fantasy drivel Tim was always referencing to an unreceptive audience of anyone who had literally _anything better to do_ \--and brought it to Tim. He left the tome propped against one of Tim’s bound hands. 

Tim gave him a look like death; his eyes were cast in sweeping circles, the corners drooping--an effect of the anesthesia during surgery, no doubt. “Are you seriously fucking with me right now?”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Raylan smirked. “Just thought you’d like something to do.” He adjusted the book until it balanced just right, and Tim could flip the pages one-handed.

“Thanks,” Tim mumbled. His long fingers carded through the pages of the book, and decided to start at the beginning. 

Raylan found the gesture endearing, somehow. Thoughtlessly, Raylan reached out and smoothed Tim's hair back, like the way he always wore it. To see it split in the middle and falling partway down his face just wasn't right. Tim said nothing as Raylan quietly made him presentable. 

“Listen, Tim.” Raylan shelved his hands on his hips and, standing over his wounded colleague, managed to look unimpressed. “I don’t care.”

Tim smiled at that. Quietly, as Raylan fell a little for Tim's bravery, Tim found solace in Raylan's loyalty.

Then, to Tim's surprise, Raylan again took his seat.

“You just gonna sit there?”

“Is there something else I could be doing?” Raylan asked, then remembered: “Getting that nurse in here, I suppose.”

“Naw,” Tim dropped his gaze to the first sentence of his book. “Forget it.”

Raylan watched Tim struggle with the pages for a time, even angling his knee outwards to better balance the book. "Want me to read?" Raylan offered, but did not immediately rise from his seat. He gave Tim the luxury of pretending to think it over.

"If you want."

Raylan retrieved the book, drew his chair in a little closer to Tim's bed, and opened to the first page. He cleared his throat. He'd never read anything out loud before in this capacity; he'd recited laundry lists of charges for a fugitive's benefit, sure, but that was different. 

Those rap sheets carried some semblance of a plot. 

" _There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar; and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad._ " (1) Raylan, his face drawn in confusion, stopped reading the convoluted text and flipped through the book. He looked at Tim, helpless and betrayed. "Jesus, Tim. The fuck is this? Is it _all_ like this?"

Tim grinned, at it didn't look like the manic death wish Raylan had seen previously, angled up at some handsome stranger. 

\- 

Fully clothed, in a sleeping bag, in a tent, Raylan cursed and spat, “My hands are fucking freezing.”

Tim rolled partway out of his sleeping bag, and began to rifle wordlessly through his duffel. He tossed a small bundle at Raylan, and curled back into his space. 

"Socks?" Raylan asked, pawing at the gift in the dark.

"For your hands," Tim said, his voice thick with sleep. "They're clean." 

"Mhm,” Raylan said, doubtful. He inched his hands into the wooly garments, anyway. “Thanks." 

The woods beyond their nylon tent were silent. Raylan wasn’t expecting _Rainforest Nature Sounds Vol. 2_ , but maybe some owls? A bear? Some general rustling of mammoth creatures whose territory they’d crept into on a lark? The point being, it was entirely too quiet for what Raylan wanted to do.

He huffed and pulled at his balls, stretched them out before going after his dick.

"You doing that into my sock?" Tim said, his voice clear as a bell as he proved himself to be less of the fitful sleeper he’d claimed.

"Ah--shit. Shit." 

Even with Tim’s tacit agreement and hard-won interest, Raylan foresaw some necessary coaxing with respect to a time and place. His expectations--and Raylan had a few--were summarily shattered as Tim twisted out of his sleeping bag, opened Raylan’s and let himself in. 

It unzipped clean and Raylan felt a cold rush of air greet him, and strip any warmth from his body--specifically, his bare hand and dick, reaching out from the elastic waist of his boxers and unbuttoned jeans. Tim, also feeling the cold, was quick to act. 

Raylan didn’t know how he managed it so smoothly and in complete darkness--truth be told, he wasn’t about to hold court and ask--but Tim did. He set himself upon Raylan’s cock like an order, gripped what he could from the base and swallowed the rest into his mouth. The sensation was both welcome and unexpected--so much so that Raylan buckled at the first warm touch, but quickly settled. He was already painfully hard and now, with just some handling and a hungry mouth, was desperately close to completion. 

“Jesus--!--oh-- _oh, Jesus._ ”

Raylan was as close as he got to _startled._ But Tim’s touch was generous and Raylan quickly warmed to it. He didn’t touch Tim during the act, however. Somehow, despite what Tim was doing, there was no invitation laid out before him. If he could see Tim’s face, Raylan expected the same dry, unimpressed expression Tim had with just about anything. So he didn’t look. 

Instead, Raylan, ever the tactile lover, begrudgingly took a page from Tim’s book: he resisted. He only took in Tim’s rhythmic sucking, and stole no tugs of hair or handfuls of the taut flesh of Tim’s back and shoulders. He filled his hands with the slick, lightweight material of the sleeping bag and let his head loll back. 

Raylan didn’t get to see Tim suck him off, and thought maybe that was partly why Tim did it at all. Even as two men sharing a tent in the middle of a national park, there was almost a sense of deniability. Raylan was hard and horny and aching--until he wasn’t. Tim was there, sure. Who’s to say what happened?

Tim brought Raylan to a stuttering completion, swallowed the evidence, wiped his mouth and returned to his own sleeping bag. He even did Raylan the favor of zipping him back up before turning his back. "There,” he said. “No clean-up." 

Raylan was silent--breathless, really--which Tim ultimately took as the sudden onset of cold feet.

“Don't tell me you were all talk,” Tim drawled, then maybe caught a touch of the disease himself. "No one's gotta know," he murmured. 

Raylan found his voice and got cocky: "That an invitation?" 

"Something like," Tim said, and turned away.

Raylan’s hand crept out after him. He whispered--although they hadn’t been--“Let me get you.” 

It was a breathless offer, and one that both men knew would not be met. Not that Raylan didn’t mean it sincerely--rather, it was simply understood that Tim would decline.

"Later," Tim answered as expected, and returned to sleep.

\- 

In the morning, Tim rose with the sun and sat outside the tent. He brushed his teeth, first. To blow Raylan without mouthwash or bottled water on hand for after was a bad idea. Tim's mouth tasted like a dirty fish tank, and his lips felt chapped and raw. 

It was still cool out, but Tim stripped down to his jeans and underwear, anyway. With a stolen hotel washcloth he found tucked in the bottom of his duffel, he spared some water to rinse himself off with. He washed his face and scrubbed his neck, brought the washcloth down his chest and arms. Out of habit, his touch turned gentle around his scarred shoulder. He started to pull back on his shirt--white, split at the neck and lined with a few needless buttons--but stilled. His hands gripped at nothing, and Raylan--who was watching from the open tent--saw in Tim’s posture alone that he lamented the absence of his rifle.

But there was nothing at Tim’s back but open sky and endless wood. Eventually, he understood that for himself and finished getting dressed. After the shirt came a fleece, and finally his jacket. 

Watching Tim, Raylan almost forgot to look at the smooth slab of mountain at their backs. It was like God himself had pulled his fingers through layers of earth, drawn up the results, and left them as-is. Blues and greys ran like rivulets of water across the stone. It stood there, in all its majesty, like it had been waiting billions of years just for him. It was almost as fine a sight as Tim.

The morning light lit the tops of the trees like fire. They burned orange-red for a time, then softened and spread to a warm yellow. When the sun crept a little higher still, the color would retreat and fade, and the tree line cooled to green. Their progress was less leisurely as they followed Rick's map. A silent agreement was struck: each wanted to see more of the park, but was conscious of their deadline. 

When they happened upon a picturesque stream, however, neither could be swayed towards the man’s hard lines. They chose a spot and Tim retrieved Raylan’s two rods from his rifle bag. They sat on a flat rock overlooking the crystal-clear waters. Blurs of color moved among the smooth stones and fine sand lining the bottom of the stream.

“What’s up with you?” Tim asked after he’d cast his line. “Last night was good, right? No complaints?” Raylan shot Tim a warm look, and Tim was quick to turn his head rather than let Raylan see him blush. He shrugged, watched his line, said, “Now, you’re crickets.” 

Raylan nodded in agreement: he had been quiet. He’d enjoyed Tim even more than he’d hoped, and the feeling lingered. That wasn’t normal, and as a result Raylan was more reserved. “I’m conserving my energy,” he said. It was a point of pride for Raylan that he was never too out of sorts to flirt. 

The answer didn’t satisfy Tim, but he didn’t press the matter. They fished for a while longer, and threw back every little thing they caught. They enjoyed the reprieve, however--the quiet afforded to them as they sat, trained and silent over their targets. 

That night, Raylan kept away from the tent as long as he could stand to. Tim wasn't bothered; he made the most out of the continued silence. He fashioned a reading light and settled into a novel he'd picked up at the airport prior to their connecting flight from Minneapolis. The portable fire pit was burning, rendering their campsite damn near cosy.

Tim used the map Rick had given him at the Ranger Station for a bookmark, and examined their progress. They'd made much better time today, and could afford to be more lax tomorrow, before their late night flight.

"It's gotta be cold out there," Tim said aloud. "You want me to turn in or just pretend to?" 

“I’m just thinking.”

“Easy, now.”

“I’m just thinking that in two weeks, I’ll be back in Miami.”

“You wanna not, then? Because your heart can’t go on?”

“Just feels a little desperate, is all.”

Tim knew Raylan was just feeding him shit, but he still answered curtly: “Didn’t think you’d be up for criticizing any which way you got blown.” He wrestled something out of his bag, then joined Raylan at the fire. 

“Oh, no. You do excellent work.” Raylan smiled appreciatively. “I am, without reservations, a big fan of your take-charge attitude.”

“It was that or get back a sock stiff as a board. I made an executive decision.” Tim brandished the bottle of bourbon they’d brought along--specifically, Tim thought, for exactly this purpose: explaining something stupid, then doing something worse. Tim cracked the plastic seal and offered Raylan the first swig. 

Raylan took it, grateful. "I've been at ya for a while," he said, and downed a second gulp. "As you might recall."

"I do recall." Tim took a more cautious drink, figuring that between the two of them, he would always have more to lose. "And I know you were lying before. Art didn't want me on this one. Art don't want me near so much as a stapler." 

"I may have greased things along," Raylan allowed. 

"Right. I figured." Tim held onto the bottle. "I appreciate that."

The fire warmed their feet, but allotted very little light by which to guide their conversation. Raylan’s boots looked their best, supple leather selves in the warmth, but the distance between himself and Tim was still great and cold. "Are you just returning a favor?"

"Would you slap the dick out of my mouth if I was?" Tim realized he was being unfair, and if Miami really was on the horizon for Raylan, there was no sense lying now. He took a longer swig of bourbon and decided to drown his cautious nature. "Fuck, man. I don't know. You had my back. At the hospital. I liked that." 

Raylan grinned wide. "Well I like you too, Tim."

Tim’s smile was cinched at the sides. He rolled his eyes and looked away. 

“I thought you were mad,” he said. “About what I’d done, ‘cause it put the brakes on your transfer.”

“I can’t rightly admit to being happy about what happened, but I wasn’t mad, neither.” Then, Raylan felt compelled to say what he’d hoped was already abundantly clear: “Nobody made me stay, Tim. You think Art didn’t want me to go? One less thing he and Rachel would have to worry about? I wanted to stay. Didn’t feel right to leave.”

“So it’s still my fault then, that you stayed.”

There was no getting through to him, Raylan decided. 

"Why now?" he asked, still not satisfied with Tim's answer that it all came down to Raylan's presence at the hospital. He never before gave credence to the thought that Tim was coming apart. But now, all things considered--maybe he was. 

What little light and warmth blossomed from the small fire did not reach higher than their knees, so Tim’s face was dark and unreadable when he answered honestly, “Nobody trusts me now, after the shooting. Everybody knows--”

“You can’t conflate the two,” Raylan started to say, then corrected, “And _nobody cares._ ” 

“Says the guy who wants to fuck me,” Tim shot back, but demured and shrugged off his own anger. What he’d labeled as Raylan’s hypocrisy was little more than a formality at this point. “Anyway. You’re leaving. If people find out, what’s it matter? There’s my dignity out the door, chasing after my sanity.” Tim shrugged, said dismissively, “Some loss.”

“You know what I like best about you? Your cheery disposition.” Raylan let his gaze wander to the peaks of smoke dotted with tiny embers drifting upwards from their small fire. Although they reached for the inky night sky, they disappeared a couple feet above Raylan’s head, extinguished by the cold. “So this is a kind of, why the hell not, my life is already in shambles kind of thing?”

“Again, does it make a difference that I’m not skulking up the steps to your hotel room?” Tim took another swig from the bottle before passing it--forcefully--off to Raylan. “And did I _say_ shambles? Rude.” His eyes flicked to Raylan. “I want to.”

Raylan stretched tall, then settled on the ground next to the fire. His long legs splayed wide to avoid the flames, but to leave a place for Tim, too. And looking down, Tim could see Raylan's face clearly, even in detail lost to him when the sun set. His expression was still unreadable until Tim decoded it--Raylan looked thoughtful. Tim joined him, his shorter legs much less of a hassle. 

"What'd you want to be when you were a kid?" Raylan asked, as if he imagined it was the one big-ticket item he could swindle away from Tim. "Myself, I only knew what I didn't want to be. The rest figured itself out."

Confused by this turn in the conversation, Tim only offered dryly: "Yeah, your whole deal seems a little... Preordained." 

"Is that a hint?"

"Oh, hell yeah. I wanted to be pope." 

Tim took the bottle back from Raylan, but did not partake. "I don't know. An astronaut." It seemed normal to Tim--what little boy doesn't want for the ultimate adventure?--but Raylan grinned a little too wide at the statement, like it was a joke. Tim decided he was better off if it was, and said, "This dude--older, deranged, killed and ate his dog type of fella," he waved a hand, "Back where I grew up swore that he'd been abducted by aliens." Ignoring Raylan's grin, Tim continued, "And he'd call sometimes when the X-Files was on and tell me, _that one. It was that one._ Scared the _shit_ outta me." 

Raylan laughed at that--which, in his own way, was little more than a smile and a huff of air. It warmed Tim's belly all the same. He looked out at the surrounding stone and trees, saw the shadows and light thrown at them from their small fire. Tim let himself remember why it was they were out here--because he _wanted_ to be, and Raylan let him. Went along, encouraged him. Tim didn't always recognize Raylan's generosity when it was leveled at him, but he saw it now, in spades. 

Tim pursed his lips, then fit the truth between them, "I guess I'm with you. I didn't want to be a fuck-up."

"Like your daddy," Raylan said, then covered poorly with his mouth on the lip of the bottle, "I imagine." 

"Subtle," Tim commended, and watched Raylan's throat as he drank. "Do we need to do this?" His voice suddenly sounded as though it was being raked over hot coals. A little worn and ragged, he continued, "Talk, I mean?"

Raylan shrugged; they didn't have to. They hadn't, the night before. "I generally like to know a thing or two about potential bedfellows.”

“Does my favorite color matter in how my dick gets sucked?”

“Depends. Is your favorite color orange?”

“No."

“You’re going to regret that,” Raylan teased. “So what was it? Your daddy. He beat your mom?”

“Sure,” Tim took a swig.

“He beat you?”

“Yep.” Another. “He knew. Way before I did.” Tim might have decided then and there to finish the bottle, if Raylan hadn't snaked it away. More of that generosity shit, Tim thought. “For the longest time, I couldn’t understand why he hated me.” 

It was the kind of statement Tim had never spoken aloud, in part because he didn't know how to manage the naturally sympathetic response. Raylan didn't present him with that problem.

He adjusted his hat and said smoothly, “Well that’s too bad. Arlo always made it perfectly clear. I was an ungrateful, good-for-nothing, lying little shit. I was a coward and a pussy."

Tim heard the anger in Raylan’s voice, try though he might to smooth the insults over with practiced nonchalance and amusement. Raylan was angry that he remembered all the insults, took them to heart and--at one time--believed them. 

“That he took away the mystery,” Tim drawled, “Is the real crime.” 

It was a testament to how much Tim wanted to refrain from talking about their fathers that he again issued his interest to Raylan. "If you still want, I mean. People don't got to know about you, too. I wouldn't say shit." He still felt bad about threatening to do so, once upon a time. By the look on Raylan's face, however, Tim was the only one who remembered that threat--or at least, took it seriously. "I make no promises about my diary, though. But it's got a little plastic lock so you know that's some Fort Knox shit." 

Raylan finally seemed to take pity on him: he leaned in close and kissed Tim thoroughly. Then, pity was stripped of the exchange as Tim’s hands found the sides of Raylan’s head, and Raylan’s to Tim’s middle. Their lips, chapped from the brisk air, were made soft and warm in a matter of minutes. Tim threw out a leg and kicked off the tiny valve to the propane-powered firepit. It would burn itself out, but they had a while yet. From there, they returned to the tent.

“Wanna fuck you," Raylan said while stripping off his jacket and plaid button-down, then Tim’s. "Wanna be fucked by you."

Tim got hard at the thought, but gritted out a clipped, “Can't. Don't have a condom.”

The excuse didn’t slow things, as shirts parted from torsos, belts were unbuckled, and jeans came unbuttoned. Hands found flesh and Raylan greedily took what he had refused himself last night. Tim tasted like fleece and the sun. He smelled sweet like unwashed bodies did. He ran cold, and Raylan found his touch even more bracing than imagined. 

“Goddamn you,” Raylan said, catching Tim’s mouth with his own again. “Makin’ me wait.” 

Tim grinned at him. “Yeah? Someone should.” 

Raylan took charge, and Tim let him. He figured Raylan would have a better grasp on the ins-and-outs of some much-needed frottage in the starry backcountry. Raylan kept Tim’s mouth busy while freeing his half-hard dick from his boxershorts. It was long and milky-white, responded well to Raylan’s touch, and boasted a softness that almost defied reason. For a fella who masterbated as much as Tim did--that just wasn’t fair. 

“Ugh,” Raylan said, feigning annoyance. “Youth.”

“We’re a mouthy bunch,” Tim agreed, missing Raylan’s meaning.

Raylan grinned at Tim, fondled his dick in a way that would put anyone else’s best efforts to shame. “You ever had a fella compliment your dick before?”

Biting his lip, Tim managed: “Never had a fella talk this much while handling it, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

“Alright, later. I’ll compose a sonnet.” 

They were a jumble of flesh sandwiched between bellies and legs. Raylan’s cock was thicker than Tim’s, and from the angle of Raylan’s hand got the lion’s share of the deal. Tim got impatient and lent his larger hand to the task, drawing both into a harried rhythm and getting off in quick succession. Raylan finished first, and kissed Tim hard as he followed suit. Tim came with a shudder, and surely left a bruise on Raylan’s lower lip. Finished, both were hungry for breath but willing to fast for just one kiss more, and one more… 

From their warm and ragged entanglement, Tim was first to extricate himself. For the mess between them he surrendered the washcloth from his bag. He remembered the bottle of bourbon they’d left by the firepit, but his lower half ached too good to leave his present position. Raylan fetched a bottle water from his own bag, and Tim accepted that instead. 

“Should probably drink the whole thing,” Raylan said, watching Tim’s sloppy-red lips fit around the bottle’s mouth. “You ever try to hike with a hangover? Ain’t for most, I’ll tell ya.” 

“You ever had to hear another grown man apologize for pissing the tent?” Tim asked, and capped the bottle after just a few sips.

"Ah, I trust you.” Raylan drew a hand over Tim, but to return to his own sleeping bag, Tim pulled away. “Maybe should have gone for the bigger size," Raylan said, regretting the loss of warmth.

Tim rested his head on the soft part of his duffle and closed his eyes. "Naw, then I'd be stuck with it." 

\- 

The next morning wasn't like the last. When the sun rose and the tent swallowed up the light, Raylan kissed Tim, mumbled sickly-sweet nothings into his unwashed hair. Tim smoothed a thumb over Raylan’s tender lower lip, where the flesh was irritated, if not surely split. Tim gave an apology. Raylan acted the part of a gentleman, said primly, “Now, Tim. I just won’t have it.”

It was their last day in the park, and much of their hike would be descent into marshy valleys and hills from the previous day’s thickly wooded forests and stoney expanses. 

Great pine trees crowded this side of the mountain, leapt from every narrow space between rock and earth. Below them, the ground was steep. Each booted foot jumped over the next as Tim and Raylan made their way down and into another great expanse of tall grass and the wilted wildflowers from earlier in the season. They hung low, their colors dampened, but clung to each bright day giving them life. 

A valley lay below, placid as a frozen pond. It was still a ways away, and brought home to both Marshals the physical heights to which their hike had taken them. Tim turned his head and stared at the mountain behind them. It certainly hadn’t felt like one, once they were in it.

“Hey,” Tim stopped in his tracks and waited for Raylan to do the same. “I was lying before, about not having a condom. I got one. I just didn't want to fuck.”

“Oh,” Raylan said, unsure if what to come was a referendum or an apology.

The smile tugging at Tim’s features said it all: it was neither. 

“Let's do it now. While it's warm.”

Raylan bit his lower lip and did not mind the pain. “You wanna fuck in a field of wild flowers?”

Tim threw an arm out to their view behind them: discolored stone, hard peaks and edges slicing into a brilliant blue sky. “I wanna fuck on the side of a mountain. It's a childhood dream, so sue me.”

“The hell kind of childhood did you have?” Raylan asked, already dropping his pack to the ground.

Tim did the same, then rushed Raylan and started to unbutton his ugly blue-and-black checkered jacket, and the plaid flannel underneath. “Grew up in Kansas. Plains, nothin' else. Flatter'n the shit on the bottom of your shoe." Tim felt Raylan’s hands on his hips, and was jerked into position. He was now flush against Raylan, who worked his hands over their belt buckles, his trigger finger quick as ever. 

Tim licked his lips, tasted Raylan soon after, and almost couldn’t believe he’d waited until midday to propose this. "Don't go thinking you're special,” he warned. “I wanted to do everything on a mountain. Wanted to brush my teeth on a fucking mountain."

“How about you do that first,” Raylan said. “You’re kind of ripe.”

Tim grinned, eager to fuck Raylan silly for that remark, but suddenly appreciative of this--all the talking Raylan seemed so fond of. He kissed Raylan again--with generous amounts of tongue--and lingered. Tim gave him a full, heinous taste of breath after three days of nothing but protein bars, bourbon, and the occasional swig of mouthwash. 

“You give me any more shit, I’ll put this massive hard on right back where I found it.” 

Raylan kissed him back--a simple peck on the lips as he shucked his jeans. “You know what? I’m used to it.”

\- 

On a Sunday evening at the end of November, with a shoulder that no longer ached, Tim rolled out of Raylan’s bed. The high-rise Miami apartment never had cold floors. Never mind the beachfront view or the generous liquor cabinet--Tim couldn't get over the floors, no matter how many times he visited. 

He’d started in the summer, when it made enough sense to go. He had some vacation time, there was the Fourth of July weekend… 

_They’d_ started after Wyoming, which led to three weeks of regular fucking until Raylan’s goodbye party at work (coincidentally, the night of and the morning after). Tim did try and let the thing die, then and there. He didn’t reach out for some time after Raylan disappeared to his chosen home in sunny, crime-ridden Florida, and when he eventually did send an email, it was the conversationally impotent, _You get moved in ok?_

The reply was immediate: _Three weeks, and this is what you ask? I had three boxes._

Raylan made the best of a follow-up email, in which he only attached a google map link to his apartment. 

For this visit, Tim had actually cashed in his vacation days to really make a go of it. It wasn’t just some half-planned stint he’d regret on Monday morning, jetlagged and spent. That was the _first_ visit, truth be told. Raylan put the invitation out there, which was met with radio silence until Tim--at the last possible moment--complied. He stumbled off a red-eye flight to Miami and showed up at Raylan’s door, uneasy and with his work I.D. still clipped to his shirt. It was a long way to travel for what was essentially a booty call, so Raylan had made it worthwhile. 

And, as fate would have it, Tim visited again. And again. And again. And again… 

Whereas the earlier trists had carried on only for one harried weekend at a time, and at the time felt entirely too much and yet finished all too soon, Tim now had time to spare. He didn’t like being at Raylan’s place when Raylan wasn’t there--a preference which now spoke for his warm tan and perpetually sand-logged shoes. By the third day, Raylan wasn’t cutting away from work early anymore, because Tim had no need of his company until the evenings and their _regularly scheduled programming._

The sex was good, with both men carrying on as if to make up for lost time. 

While Tim left the bed--the final time for a long time, if his bank account was to be believed--Raylan remained tangled in the sheets, all plans for a nice meal out long abandoned. 

“This pizza place any good?” Tim called from the kitchen. Raylan figured he meant the flyer in the scrap drawer. It was probably the only thing in there without a number and name scrawled on it. “Mindy seemed to like it.”

Or not.

“Mindy was the waitress,” Raylan hollered back--a boldfaced lie.

“Says here she stuffed your crust.”

Raylan pulled off the sheets. “That was complimentary!” He walked naked through the hall and into the living space and kitchen, after Tim. 

“Enjoyed your extra beef--!” Raylan slid in after Tim and goosed him from behind. 

"Fuck!" Tim cried, twisting away. Raylan played dirty more often than not, and since Raylan learned Tim was ticklish, Tim never saw the end of it. He supposed he would, if he ever made good on the threat of pulling his sidearm. "Shit! Officer down.”

"I want those fucking balls," Raylan said, all grins and slick teeth fronts into the back of Tim's neck. “Why’d you get dressed?”

Tim elbowed his way free, and straightened his jeans where Raylan had tugged them partway down. “Ordering a pizza.”

Raylan, still pressed against Tim’s back, played with the belt loops on either side of Tim’s crotch. He smelled good, smelled like Raylan. “You gotta look presentable for the delivery boy?”

“He could be cute. It could be love.” Tim wrenched away long enough to make the call, but in the meantime Raylan got him on his back and half-naked again on the couch. 

They only kissed--Raylan liked to do that, Tim found--and although the process was altogether slow and held little purpose beyond exploration of the familiar, Tim didn't mind it so much anymore. But he turned his head, now, like he once was wont to do in an effort to deter Raylan's interest. “Why are you fuckin’ girls named Mindy?”

Raylan wished he didn’t have to hear questions like that out of Tim’s mouth, especially wet and red like it was. “What have you got against Mindy? Kept me in shape for you.”

Tim ducked his head, shielding his mouth from Raylan's by burying it against the other man's throat. “I don’t appreciate her reliance on pizza puns.” 

“I’ll pass that along, next I see her.” Raylan looped his arms around Tim’s middle in what could be misconstrued as a hug. “Or you could stay, and she can live the rest of her life in three-cheese ignorance.”

Tim elbowed him, and made the call. 

By the time the pizza arrived, Raylan had finally deigned to dress himself. With Tim’s attention lost to a few work e-mails on his phone, Raylan took it upon himself to ready dinner, which in this case amounted to--

“Plates?” Tim sounded surprised when Raylan joined him on the couch. “Will the president be joining us?”

“He sends his regrets.” 

The first slice was eaten in revered silence.

“I love this,” Tim said, a line of cheese caught on his chin. “Pizza,” he corrected quickly. “I _like_ you.”

“If I’m second only to a good slice, I can live with that.” Raylan grinned. “I know you like me. Could have said so earlier, though. Won’t deny it could have made this transition a touch smoother.”

Tim fell silent; if memory served, they’d had this conversation a number of times. Every reply he’d given in the past was an excuse. Today, with a surge of confidence, Tim found within him a real response: “I told people I was here.”

The comment had its intended effect; Raylan raised his eyebrows in surprise. Tim was quick to add, perhaps a little shamefully, “Just that I was coming down south, crashing at your place.” 

“You can tell people whatever you’d like,” Raylan said. “I have.”

Tim didn’t outright ask what the fuck _that_ meant, so he just waited. He rightfully guessed if Raylan was pleased with himself about it, Tim wouldn’t be in for a very long wait. 

“Just that I’m seeing someone. Younger, of course. Lives out of state. Comes ‘round so we can fuck each other’s brains out. I think they’d assume I was lying if I didn’t say you were a man.” Raylan smiled, sort of soft, like he didn’t appreciate what he’d done until just now. “I’m too old to give a shit, Tim. I got run out of this town for shootin’ a fella over a plate of crab cakes. You think a little thing like this is gonna send me packing again?” 

Then, because it just hit him that Raylan had no idea what Tim's life was like back in Kentucky, he asked, "What _do_ you tell people?" 

"Nothing. Nobody asks." Throwing Raylan’s own words back in his face, Tim added, _“Nobody cares.”_

"Bullshit." Raylan had meant that sentiment, once. He didn’t believe it now. 

"Nelson once said something, when that same-sex marriage case was on the table,” Tim waved a hand; he didn’t follow the case, in some part so as not to feel inclined to say anything when the matter was raised in courthouse circles. “I think I scared him off."

Raylan grinned. Nelson was a sweetheart. "What'd he say?" 

" _Good luck,_ ” Tim repeated, and wrinkled his nose. “Told him the next day he’d fucking jinxed it. Really did look sorry.”

They ate pizza, drank beers, and casually watched a game on TV--baseball, which couldn't hold Tim's interest. His attention wandered and he found himself looking around Raylan's place as if he hadn't really been there the past week. Sometimes, Tim felt like he'd only ghosted the place. It was spacious and clean, nothing like Raylan's ever-changing digs in Kentucky. It was open, with lots of windows and ample sunlight. Heavy curtains hung close to the windowed wall for when the day proved too warm and the latter was not desired. 

The curtains were pulled back now to reveal the glittering city below. Tim liked Miami at night--drowned in shadow and dark, it didn't look so dirty. But he enjoyed the daytime, too, most of which he'd spent on the beach. Over his last few visits he'd even learned to surf, something he was secretly very proud of but refused to inform Raylan. 

"What are you smilin' for?" Raylan asked, stirring Tim from his thoughts. He'd only spoken after he'd had a good, long time spent watching. Of course, Tim smothered his good mood immediately.

Tim shrugged, didn't answer. The pizza box was nearly empty. The cheese and dough was weighing heavy in his gut, but the beer had him feeling light and eager. 

Raylan was chewing on some chocolate-marshmallow monstrosity, of which he offered Tim a bite.

Tim turned his head, eyed the label. “MoonPie? Is that like a Scooter Pie?”

“You had Scooter Pies? Christ. We are from different worlds.”

“Didn’t grow up with that cocaine money putting MoonPies on the table,” Tim lamented. “Like some people I could mention.”

“Can you smell it?” Raylan teased, bumping the processed treat against Tim’s face. “I’m uppercrust compared to Scooter Pies.”

Tim pushed him away, stretched out into Raylan’s space. This ended with one of Tim’s legs drawn across Raylan’s lap. "You wanna fool around some more? I got an early flight tomorrow. Won't see ya."

"I'll drive you," Raylan said, like it was something he'd ever done before. Tim knew better than to take it to heart. "Let's just sleep, huh?" 

In bed, Raylan made himself comfortable and flush against Tim's back. He fit an arm under Tim's and wrapped it around the other man's middle. Because there wouldn't be any discussion about its significance, Tim didn't mind doing it. 

Raylan found Tim's dog tags, and held the cold metal between his index finger and thumb until it was warmed. Tim snorted; whether intentionally or not, it was as sugar-sweet a thing as Raylan would ever do. 

With warm pizza breath, Raylan murmured, "I want you here, Tim." 

It sounded ominous, and Tim readied himself to hear about the other man--or women, more like--Raylan was seeing and wanted to see more of. Tim wondered if he'd hear that awful request: to _call_ next time, or schedule their meetings so as not to interfere with Raylan's new, sprawling Miami love life.

But Tim never heard any of that. Raylan fell asleep, and that was when Tim realized it was a complete thought: I want you here. 

\- 

Tim awoke early the next morning, and to his surprise Raylan followed suit, and did indeed give him a ride to the airport. Still too early for even the check-in kiosks, they took a left and found the food court. They ordered coffees and shared them over a tiny plastic table and seats drilled into the floor.

“Rachel’s gonna take the Tennessee job.” 

After _good morning_ and _where’s my fucking shoe?_ it was all Tim had to say that morning. “I could take a swing at the Lexington office, same as anybody. I don’t think I’d get it.” 

Raylan sipped his coffee. “Wouldn’t have thought you wanted it.”

Tim shrugged. Raylan supposed maybe he did secretly want the position--or, at the very least, wanted his getting it to exist as a possibility. Even without the spillover from the shooting, there was enough surrounding Tim that a promotion wasn’t in the cards for him. “I’m the only one not moving up or moving on.”

“You’re young.”

“I hate people saying that to me.” Tim said, and couldn’t hide the twinge of disappointment he harbored that now Raylan could join those ranks. “I been in higher ranks years ago.”

“It’s bureaucracy,” Raylan told him, although much of the sentiment was lost to a yawn. Lamenting that Tim continued to schedule early flights back to Kentucky, Raylan said, “This is killing me, you realize that?” 

“It crossed my mind,” Tim said, his small smile disappearing into the lip of his coffee cup. 

"Don't," Raylan told him, and leveled an assured stare across the small table. "Next time. Don't book a return flight." Raylan drew a hand through his hair; it was the first morning in all the time they’d spent together that Raylan hadn’t remembered to don his hat, first thing. Tim didn’t know it, but he had bigger things on his mind. 

“Look, I spoke with Dan.”

“About what?” Tim asked.

“About my first prostate exam. What do you think?”

“...About what,” Tim repeated, now praying for mercy.

“About us.”

“ _Jesus,_ Raylan,” Tim spat. “Why would you do that? Tell your boss you’re--what? Fucking somebody?”

“ _With_ somebody--”

“You’ve got nothing to show for it.” _A man who books the cheapest flights he can find, when he’s got the extra cash on hand, and never before._ In Tim’s mind, that was worse than nothing--it was more akin to what he’d _wanted_ when he was just starting out, dismissing Raylan’s advances and burying his own interest.

Raylan gave him a smart look. “I know you don’t mean that.” 

“Why would you tell him,” Tim asked, suddenly finding his line of questioning exhausted. Raylan rarely seemed to have a good reason for doing anything, beyond simply _wanting to._

“I don't know, Tim. I guess the daughter well was running dry. She can only take so many first steps and solid shits. Why not tell him? You're in my life. You're important. You shit all the time, all on your own.”

The last comment was Raylan’s piss-poor attempt at a joke, which Tim didn’t find very funny. 

Tim sunk back into his chair, disheartened. He felt something old and familiar settle into his chest, like disappointment, except Tim never knew disappointment to hurt so bad. He saw all the time and effort on both their parts, stretched out before him and shredded to ribbons. The cuts were clean and infinite, but Tim couldn’t even find it in himself to feel angry. The only evidence that he blamed Raylan for this sudden undoing was that Tim couldn’t look at him when he said, “I think we should end things here.”

Raylan didn’t share that deficiency. He leaned over the table and said where Tim couldn’t help but see, hear, and _smell_ him--“ _Move in with me,_ is what I’m getting at.” Raylan dropped back, annoyed. “Asshole.”

He took a sharp sip of coffee and watched Tim’s face screw up, then cut in before he had time to pull together some patchwork denial. “Just listen to what I’m telling you. Yes, I told Dan about you. And as it happens, the office just lost a Deputy to Atlanta, and another to maternity leave. He was interested, put together a package. And _yes,_ I told Dan about us. It didn’t change the offer, none.” Raylan watched as every word hit Tim like a wet brick, then nodded to the floor at Tim’s feet. “I put it in your backpack. The offer.”

Tim licked his lips. “Why.”

“I saw this going a lot smoother in my head.”

“Not _why my bag,_ you wet fuck, why--” Tim stopped himself. He wouldn’t waste any breath appeasing Raylan. “I don’t want to be anywhere under those circumstances,” he said, and looked his partner in the eye. “Full stop.”

Raylan scratched his head. “I do sincerely mean this in my defense: Dan hired **me.** _Twice._ Hiring you ain’t gonna raise a single eyebrow.” 

It was a bit much, Raylan knew that now. The offer from Dan--a _contract_ , no less--may have tipped things over the edge. But Tim was pragmatic, and Raylan believed he’d look past his discomfort and know a solid deal when he saw one. A few months ago, Raylan wouldn’t have thought so. But the visits turned him on to a different side of Tim, a side that smiled and relaxed, and only _talked_ about shooting people, but never added to his list.

“Tim, if you’re waiting for perfect you’re gonna have to tell me what that is.” 

Tim scrubbed a hand over the left side of his face, which Raylan recognized to mean Tim felt a migraine coming on, and he near about said so. 

They _were_ perfect, and Tim just didn’t know.

“I wish I’d have done something earlier. In Kentucky.”

Raylan frowned. That was not the response he was expecting--to anything--and he fumbled the reply with a harsh: “I’m not going back there.”

“That’s not what I mean.” 

Raylan’s heart sank a little, for Tim. “There’s a time I’d have agreed, but,” Raylan leaned over the table, as if proximity alone would have him be heard. “You trust me now.” 

For two years, Raylan had been saying exactly that. For once, it wasn’t a question.

It was a winning argument. 

“There are other task forces. There are options.” Raylan licked his lips. He was hungry for this, for Tim’s compliance. “I’m not gonna try and convince you of anything. Either you want to give Miami a shot or you don’t.” 

“Miami,” Tim repeated, hearing Raylan’s meaning. 

“Warm, sexy Miami.”

“Tall Miami.”

“Big dick Miami.”

“Eh,” Tim waffled, then sobered. "Winona--?"

"Will be thrilled none of this was her fault after all." 

Tim picked up his coffee cup, but didn’t drink. He rubbed his face again, but not drinking the coffee at hand meant the headache was already gone. 

_Perfect,_ Raylan thought to himself again.

"Shit, Raylan," Tim said, but the sentiment had changed and Raylan heard something different. He heard begrudging acceptance. He heard forgiveness. 

“Come on,” Raylan pushed. “Pack up your shit, bring your depression cat--let’s do this. Why not, right? Or go back to Kentucky. It’s me or… shambles.”

“I _never_ said _shambles_ \--” Tim stopped himself, smiled. He had a bizarre look on his face like he was about to take aim to shoot his own foot, blindfolded, just to prove he could. 

“I can’t come right away.” It was more of a thought spoken aloud to himself than anything concrete. “There’s a grace period, after Rachel. We can’t all jump ship.”

“Understandable,” Raylan said, grinning wide. “I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wait?” Tim sounded doubtful, and very nearly brought up _Mindy_ by name.

“Tim, what have I been doing since day one?”

“Sleeping with women and making the occasional smart remark about my ass, generally speaking.” 

“Well, that too,” Raylan admitted. “But that was all in the context of waiting.”

The sorry thing was, Tim _understood_ that.

_Perfect._

Tim sighed. The only thing he was certain of in his decision was that he’d made one. He drank down half a cup of coffee and thought back through the conversation in search of the tipping point, where it was that Raylan tripped him up and got him to believe in nothing short of a fairytale: that Tim would grow up and meet a man with wide-ranging tastes, get scared off, come inching slowly back, and by all intents and purposes-- _date_ and _move in together_. Like _people._

Tim figured he’d been won over a long time ago, and eyed Raylan like the sneaky motherfucker he was.

Still, he frowned, asked, “How was your prostate?”

Raylan raised his paper cup to a toast. “It misses you.”

“Fuck you,” Tim said, but met the cup with his own, anyway. 

With the departure kiosks opening, Tim leaned over to retrieve his backpack. Under the table, Raylan greeted Tim’s hand with his own. 

“I’m serious,” Raylan said, and heard a severity in his tone that surprised even him.

Tim nodded. “I’ll see you soon.” It was a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The first lines from JRR Tolkein's, "The Silmarillion." 
> 
> And Scooter Pies are a knockoff of the MoonPie. Both are gross, but the Scooter Pie... more so. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented. It means a lot to me that someone enjoys these silly stories. :)


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